


A Family Grew Around Me

by imanadultiguess



Series: Makeshift Family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because Jim shot himself, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, OFC - Freeform, OFC who is a prostitute and used basically to solidify Moran's sexuality, Please remember that neither Basher nor Jim are good people, Potentially abusive relationship moments?, Relationship threats, Relationship violence, Shit, Some mutilation, Straight Character in a Same Sex Relationship, There's some brief mentions of underage sexual abuse, Tryna clean up the tags a little, aftermath of torture and abuse, and basher kills a lot of people, be aware of the child abuse, but it's present, graphic descriptions of foreplay, it's not graphic, potentially LGBTQIA-phobic language, potty training little ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:12:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 74,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snapshots in which Basher slowly realizes that the life that he's grown from a simple seed of dishonor and a talent for slaughter has been choked out by a weed and a spider.</p><p>**The sex is in chapter 14.  Just FYI.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Seed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say here. Like, I've got Basher's narrative tone in my head but when I try to get his words out, they're just not there. So it's entirely possible that this doesn't meet the technical requirements I was shooting for. 
> 
> Sorry for that. Also, for now, Basher is just an employee. A well-trusted employee, but an employee nonetheless.
> 
> Also, it's and its. I hate them and I can't keep them straight and I'm sorry. I did the best I could.
> 
> **Did some updates. Note that this chapter now takes place in 2009, a year before the events of the _The Blind Banker_.**

_March 2009_

I hate the salt air. I hate the way the humidity makes the crates swell, the way the odor of low-tide permeates the warehouse. And most of all, I hate the clean up I'll have to do on my L96 to avoid rust.

But I love the money. The work itself is tedious and boring; at most I rough up a few idiots who think they can cheat the Professor and get away with it. I've yet to kill anyone on one of these recon missions. The Professor likes to make sure everything runs smoothly, ensure he's got good leads, reliable people, the like. While the name Moriarty inspires _fear_ , it also has to inspire _confidence_. What good is a murderous consultant if he's only good at murdering and not consulting? 

He goes undercover like this sometimes. Currently he's some weird bloke in a dai cap named Everett. Everett is nervous with shifty eyes and a stutter that he tries to hide. He asks too many questions and is likely going to get his arse handed to him before the night is over. 

General Shan's keeping a close eye on the workers as well. She knows someone is stealing from her, but she doesn't know who. It could be the higher-ups in the gang, or it could be one of these corrupt dockworkers, trying to get a foot in the door to a better life of crime. Believe it or not, loading and unloading cocaine-laced imports doesn't bring in quite as much as you would think. 

This is a collaboration project, I suppose. The Kifeesi, the Sun Yee On, and the Russian mafia all working together to bring live goods, drugs, and firearms to Scotland. Honestly, I'm always surprised at the high demand for exotic cats in Seaton, but to each his own, I suppose. 

The still form of one of the workers catches my eye. "Oi," I call out to the disguised Professor, "you're not getting paid to stare at the merchandise!" 

His black eyes meet mine, and Everett is completely gone. The glare he gives me in grade-A Moriarty. I glare back. He tilts his head ever so slightly, indicating something on the floor. I bow my head just enough to signal my understanding. 

"S-sorry," he shouts back in his faux Welsh accent, Everett taking over the body of Moriarty. "Sorry, sorry, it--ah, it w-won't happen--" 

"Shut it and keep working!" I shout back. 

"Sorry, sorry," he mutters, tripping over a box in his hurry to keep busy. 

I wait a few minutes, keeping my eye on the spot where the Professor had indicated something he wanted. Now that I'm watching, everyone seems to be avoiding it. Whatever the product is, its made the workers slightly uncomfortable. I watch as Shan assassinates one of her guards with expensive, antique chopsticks through his gullet, warning the workers who have stopped to watch that they'll meet the same fate if they don't keep moving. I don't know why; we're well ahead of schedule. The customs officials we paid off likely won't be back for at least four hours. (I didn't kill them, and they aren't around, so I assume they were paid off... Shan could've made quick work of them, though.) 

When I finally meander my way to the spot where Moriarty signaled he wanted something, I'm flabbergasted to discover the object in question is a small human. 

"Holy shit," I breathe. Oh my God, it reeks. I'm not sure it is even alive. Its eyes are shut, and its perfectly still. I don't see any signs of breath. It doesn't look well. Blisters and rash cover its skin, and it's unnervingly thin for a baby. I don't want to touch it lest I contract whatever disease its carrying. 

I reach out to touch its bare skin, expecting to be met with the chill of death, but it's blazing hot. As soon as my finger tips graze its forehead, giant black eyes open to meet mine. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. A weak cough escapes its lips, and those eyes shut again. 

I look around, trying to find "Everett" in the crowd. No luck. I lift the strange creature up, waste leaking out of its clearly-soiled diaper. I want to vomit. I take it outside and clean it to the best of my ability, wrapping its lower half in a jacket I find in an unlocked locker. It doesn't cry, just coughs and occasionally wheezes. 

I place some plastic down in my rifle bag, followed by the baby. "If you shit on anything in here besides the plastic, I'm tossing you in the ocean," I tell it. 

I don't know what the Professor wants with a baby. My stomach churns as I think about his inclinations for sadism. I don't know anything about his sexual habits. Maybe that's his thing. I shake that thought away. He doesn't pay me to be his conscience; he pays me to make sure he can do whatever the hell he wants. 

I'm not a good man. Neither is he. No one is here because they're some Robin Hood character, stealing from the rich to feed the poor or working some underground railroad to get sex slaves to freedom. The only reason a baby would be in this shipment is if someone had a plan for it. 

I shrug it off. 

The Professor can have it. I won't say a word. 

~~

The Professor is murmuring to it. I look at him through the rearview mirror. He catches my baffled expression and snaps, "Eyes on the road, Basher." 

I obey, rolling my eyes and sighing. 

"You're gonna be a pretty girl, aren't you? We'll get rid of all those nasty blisters, yes we will, yes we will. And you're gonna be daddy's little princess." 

My stomach rolls again. "Boss?" 

"Yes?" he answers in that weird sing-song coo. 

"What the hell?" 

"Don't swear in front of the baby, Basher!" he growls. 

It's all I can do not to spin around and gape at him. I pull off to the side and park before looking him dead in the eyes through the rearview mirror. 

Those huge black eyes. 

"Look, I don't care what you do with it, yeah? But I don't want to know about it, okay?" I hope he gets the insinuation. 

He tilts his head like a lizard trying to understand its prey. There's a long silence. "I'm a psychopath," he says lowly and reasonably, "not a paedophile." 

I take a few deep breaths. I'm annoyed at how much that confession comforts me. 

"So . . . what are you going to do with it?" 

" _She_ is going to be my daughter!" he says, tone bizarrely gleeful. 

I snort. "No one's gonna believe that, Prof." 

He frowns at me. "And just why the hell not?" 

"Well, one, because she's black." 

"I could have a black daughter!" 

"Not with that pasty white skin, you couldn't!" 

"I could've just adopted her! They don't always match up the skin color!" 

"Why would you do that?!" 

"Why wouldn't I?" 

"Because you're Moriarty! The Consulting Criminal! The Professor of the Underground!" 

"Well, maybe Rich Brook wants to adopt a baby! Or Jim from IT. Or Alan...since his wife died, he's been so sad." He smirks in the mirror. In case it's not apparent, the Professor has several different identities. 

"Yes, but Alan is about to be kidnapped by the Czechs, remember?" 

"I've been thinking about that. . . . I don't think that's the best way to start a gang war. I think if we're going to rid Paris of the Romanian mob--" He doesn't finish his sentence because the baby starts into a coughing fit. "Oh no, no, no, that just won't do, little miss," he cooes, resting her head on his shoulder so he can pat her back. "Basher, get to a pharmacy. This little one's sick as she can be, yes she is, yes she is." His tone turns harsh as he kicks at my seat. "Move the fucking vehicle, you stupid shit!" 

"Oh for God's sake." I don't want a dead baby in the automobile, so I do as I'm told. 

When the car starts to move again, and the baby has stopped coughing, Jim says very softly, "I think I'll call you . . . hm, Stella? No, no, no, that's hideous, isn't it, dear? We don't need some abusive maniac shouting at you from the street when you grow up, do we? No, no, no. Hm . . . I quite like the name Dorothy." 

I turn on the radio. Now that I know Moriarty's not a baby-rapist, I can be contentedly disgusted with his paternal affinity for the unwanted offspring we found on the docks. Fucking weirdo. Seriously, he spends all this time and energy and billions of pounds to build this massive empire, to write coding that could take down the free world, to create dozens of identities to play with, and somehow that's not enough. For some reason, he decides he needs to have a child. 

He'll probably toss it in a church or a police station when he gets bored with it. If he doesn't shove it in a garbage disposal. 

"Let me out here," he says. I pull over to the side and stop the car. "You drive 'round for a bit, while I get Dorothy--ugh, no I don't like that name anymore--Aoife some paracetamol. Hold the little one." 

He's reaching over the front seats to hand me the infant. I hold my hands as far away from it as possible. "Fuck. No." 

"It's just a baby," he scoffs. 

"Its shitty and pissy and covered in sores!" 

"So are you, Basher. You'll get along fine." 

"I'm not covered in sores!" 

"You will be if you keep seeing that whore Anisa." 

"She's a callgirl. And one of yours, thank you very much." 

"Health records aren't unforgeable, Basher," he says with a devious grin. "Now take the babe, you're holding up traffic. Mind her head."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be that person, but, er...can you let me know if this is worth continuing?


	2. Germination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basher watches the baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was up previously, then was taken down so I could edit it properly.

_One year later. March, 2010._

"I need you to watch Evelyn."

I blink rapidly. "And Evelyn is a . . . ?" 

"My daughter." 

Scratching the back of my neck, I check the name on the caller ID. Sure enough, it reads "The Professor." I sigh. "You kept it?" 

"Oh my God, Basher, I don't have time for this. I'm coming in." 

The door to my flat bursts open, revealing my boss dressed as Jim from IT, and pushing a pram. I'm unnerved that he knows where I live, but I shouldn't be surprised. Still, my sense of safety in my own home seems diminished. I can't help but stand closer to him, use my height to tower over him. If he's going to intimidate me, even inadvertently, I'm going to intimidate back. The fact is, in a fair fight, I could snap that little Irish twig in two. But the Professor doesn't fight fair, so I can't risk making a move. He stares up at me, unimpressed. "Problem, Tiger?" 

Without meaning to, my face contorts into a scowl. That's specifically Anisa's name for me. Has she been blabbing to him or has he simply been spying? That sense of intrusion deepens. "Don't fuckin' call me that." 

He grins at my discomfort and offers the following explanation. "I have a date." 

"I don't care." 

"You have to watch Evelyn." He shoves the pram against my knees. 

"No fucking way." I shove it back. 

"You don't have a choice!" he shouts, his eyes shiny with something murderous. 

"Oh my God, can't someone else watch it? I don't know a thing about babies." 

"You've two neices and three nephews. Surely you've interacted with at least one of them." 

"Wrong. Carrie and I haven't spoken since I left for Iraq." 

The information doesn't faze him. He sets the bag of nappies on the floor, then quickly turns. "I'll be back around midnight. There's a schedule in the bag, and some FAQs should you need them." He bends over the pram to address the child who has probably doubled in size since I saw it last. It jumps with delight, weird little hands reaching out to touch his face. "I've got to go, sweetheart. Can you say 'bye bye'?" 

It lets out a painfully shrill squeal. 

"Bye bye, princess. Say 'bye bye'." 

It answers back with something that's not quite "buh buh" but Moriarty is thrilled nonetheless. He plants kisses all over its face, and it giggles, making smooching sounds in return, but its lips don't actually make contact with him. It's the most bizarre thing I've ever seen. Have I stepped into the Twilight Zone? 

The Consulting Criminal gets to his feet, and without even so much as a glance my way, he starts for the door. 

Without thinking, I grab the door handle, pulling it to stay open, the Professor still clinging to the opposite handle. "No. I draw the line here, boss." 

He laughs lightly. "You don't get to do that, Basher. Only I do." 

A shiver runs down my spine. Something about those black eyes triggers this memory I have from when I was a kid, this terrible moment in my childhood revolving around a bunch of kittens trapped in a storm drain, and the deep uneasy feeling that was rooted in my gut for days afterwards. They were so small, so helpless. So was I. 

So is this kid. 

I shake my head, setting my jaw and shoulders. "If you're not back by eleven, I'll hurl it out the window." 

The Professor chuckles again. "No you won't," he sings and shuts the door before I can counter.

And suddenly I'm alone with some reject child. It was very unlike Moriarty to want something that no one else wanted. I always assumed that what drove him was envy. Maybe I was wrong. 

I don't think about the Professor a lot, to be honest. 

Frankly, I don't want to be thinking of him now. 

A weed. Moriarty had literally found a weed that someone had plucked from its home soil and tossed it aside. No one ever asked about the baby. No report was ever filed to my knowledge. It hadn't been lovingly cared for, so it wasn't worth much in a black market adoption. This kid was a fucking weed. 

And now it was in my flat, because, for the moment, Moriarty didn't want it either. 

A minute or two passes, and I realize its eyes are on the door. I shrug and leave it in its pram exactly where the Professor had parked it. Once I'm settled on the sofa with a beer and some crisps, ready to watch _Top Gear_ and read whatever I'd saved on my reading list, it proceeds to freak the _hell_ out. 

I groan, switching off the television, shutting my laptop. In no particular hurry, I make my way through the kitchen to the foyer before the door. The thing is bright red from screeching, its eyes all squinty and wet. "Hey," I say softly, actually somewhat afraid to speak. "Hey," I say again, feeling bolder. It keeps screaming. "Heeey," I say a third time, and the screams soften to whines for the briefest of moments. Its eyes open a little, peering at me through long black lashes. "What the hell's your problem, eh?" 

More hellish screaming makes me jump back and cover my ears. "Jesus Christ, stop it!" It's a godawful sound. Several mutations and evolutions over the course of the history of mankind have made it damn near impossible to ignore the screams of a baby. It's purposely jarring. Unnerving. Fuck evolution. Fuck Moriarty. 

I didn't think it was possible, but the cries pitch up again, and I feel like my eardrums should be bleeding. Instinctively, I kick at the pram, only considering the consequences just before fully booting her against the door. Instead, my toe knocks the legs of the device, sending her back against the door at a rather fast pace. 

It stops the tears. Its eyes open wide, as if the two of us have been the first to discover inertia and momentum. A wet giggle sounds softly. Seeing the snot slip down its filtrum makes me want to gag. I run back to the kitchen to grab some paper towels. Unfortunately, I don't have paper towels. "Fuck. Your daddy's gonna be bringin' me paper towels, you hear me, little girl?" I shout, grabbing a sponge that's on the sink. It's just for show, really. It's pretty rare that I have reason to do dishes. I own maybe five plates, a couple of mugs, and some water bottles. 

Expecting a baby who is barely aware of its own arms to wipe its nose with a sponge is stupid, but I find myself tossing the sponge into the carrier nonetheless. "Here. Wipe your nose." All sound stops as the baby does its best to investigate. It holds the sponge between its palms, oblivious as to how to bend its fingers and get a proper grip. Meh, it'll figure it out. 

Flopping back on the sofa, I resume whatever I was doing on the computer. Apparently I was reading about deaths on Mt. Everest. 

And now I wish I was dead on Mt. Everest because Moriarty's damned hellspawn starts squawking again. God, it's grating. I can literally feel every decibel in my goddamn spine. "Shut the hell up!" 

Surprisingly, that did NOT work. 

I dash back to the foyer, hands over my ears. The sponge is apparently no longer interesting. The wrinkles in its face are so deep it looks painful. My head aches just looking at it. "Stop," I hiss, kicking at the carrier again so that it rocks back and forth. This is, apparently, the greatest thing in the entire world, because it is losing its fucking mind laughing, which is almost as annoying as the screaming, minus that bizarre visceral reaction it causes me. 

"You're really fucked up if you laugh when you're being abused." 

Her--its--bright eyes meet mine. The blood that's pooled in her head from the screaming has emphasized the mostly invisible scars on her face, and I realize that she is looking much better than the last time I saw her. It. Her. 

She squeals out in pleasure. "No!" I squeal back. "No, no, no, we don't scream like that." 

She lifts her pudgy little arms, waving them in the air. It is the first time I realize that she has a long brown scar starting below her collar bone creeping across the underside of her left arm. The thought of what might've happened to the unwanted child makes me cringe. 

I crouch down beside her, holding her wrist to study the mark. The feel of her skin is vastly different than last time. Smooth, a decent temperature. Her tiny hand wriggles out of my grip just enough to wrap her pudgy fingers around my thumb. My entire being tenses because I have no goddamn idea why. I have a bizarre urge to squeal. This fucking weed is too damn cute. Too damn trusting. 

The thumb she's holding dug a man's eyeball out of his skull. She has no idea. And her instinct to hold isn't at all marred by the fact that a year ago she was sliced up and abandoned in the hot sun and blistering sea air. 

A chill crosses over me. 

When the Professor answers his phone, it's obvious by the Gloria Gaynor blasting in the background that he's at a nightclub. "Yasss?" he shouts into the phone. I can hear the ridiculous grin on his face. 

"Did you cut her?" 

He laughs. "Oh, sweetheart, of course not," he lilts. "Did my big bad tiger get worried about the wee one?" 

I believe him. I'm relieved. 

His voice drops, losing its effervescence, and the music fades. He's stepped somewhere quieter. "How is she?" There's something solemn and threatening in his voice. 

"Why don't you come get her and find out?" 

"Don't get smart, Basher. Have you even looked through the list?" 

"Er, not yet." 

"Fucking read it," he hisses, "and call me after she's had supper." 

The call ends. 

I'm alone with her again. 

"Evelyn," I breathe. "You want some food?"


	3. The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens behind the scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the Pool scene of "The Great Game" and "The Scandal in Belgravia."
> 
>  
> 
> I'm a little inebriated. Ignore mistakes until the end and then maybe mention them gently? I'm fragile and insecure. Which is my problem, not yours...just saying, if you wanna be nice...

_A month later. April 2010_

I've only heard the name Sherlock Holmes from the Professor, but apparently, he's sort of a big deal because of this blogger. And when I say "this blogger" I mean this short, angry out-of-work doctor who, two hours ago, was in the passenger's seat of one of Moriarty's HVAC cover business vans, cursing up a storm. He gave me one hell of a punch, too, before I drugged him. Even now, I'm impressed. I will definitely have a black eye.

Currently I'm in the rafters of a gym above a swimming pool. The rugrat is in a playpen against the wall. The Professor's got a couple of other snipers surrounding the pool as well, some on the second floor track, some on the roofs of surrounding buildings. Of course, I'm alone, because apparently Moriarty doesn't want anyone to know about his daughter. In my earpiece, Jim is ordering Dr. Blogger to remain still, assuring him he'll get to see his "BEE EFF EFF" very soon. There's actually two frequencies on my earpiece, one for general use, and one for emergency use (ie, Evelyn gets sick). None of the other snipers, to my knowledge, have the second frequency. Weirdly, I feel a bit special that I'm the only one of his employees that knows about the little one. I mean, it's possible (and likely) that that's not true, that all the other snipers know about her. . . 

The gawky detective meanders into the pool area. There's something inherent about the weird bastard that makes me want to beat the shit out of him. I don't know what it is, but some people just have a face that makes you want to hit them. He sure as hell does. Maybe that's why the Professor is obsessed with him; I'm roughly 85% sure that everyone wanted to beat the shit out of him too when he was in school. Two super-geniuses who no one likes meeting at a pool at midnight. I'm pretty sure my sister Carrie read a romance novel like that in the 80s. 

I hear a very soft coo behind me. I turn to see Evelyn, standing up but leaning on the post of the playpen, watching me with bright black eyes. God, it's bizarre how much she looks like the Professor. Her gaze is so intense. In my earpiece, Jim is ordering Dr. Blogger to walk into the pool area. 

"Uh, hi," I whisper. 

She purses her lips like she's going to shush me, but rather than bringing up a single finger to do so, she brings up all ten, splaying them across her lips. 

I point at her. "Right. Gotcha. Gotta be quiet." I turn back to the weird detective. His angry doctor/soldier/blogger has appeared, and they're chatting about God knows what. "Hi I'm the Doctor, and I've gotta bomb strapped to my chest," I whisper to myself, chuckling. I do a mean Sylvester McCoy impression. 

"Bomb bomb bomb," Evelyn babbles behind me. 

"Shush," I hiss at her. 

Her bottom lip sticks out, and I worry for a second that she's about to start wailing like she did at my flat, but the Irish brogue radiating from the pool makes her smile. I can't explain it, but I can tell she's about to shout "Papa" or "dada" or whatever the hell she calls him, so I leap to the pen, lifting her up and covering her mouth, hoping none of the other snipers can see me. 

"Jim Moriarty. Hiiii." 

I nearly drop the kid. "His name is Jim?" I mouth. Evelyn's arms reach out for him. I reach into her playpen and shove her dummy in her mouth. "That cannot be true." 

If Jim was the name he was using with the Hooper woman, why does he continue to use it? Surely his name is not "Jim." That'd be fucking ridiculous. Who's afraid of a man named Jim? 

"Professor Jim, Consulting Criminal, PhD," I mouth, trying not to cackle. Maybe I shouldn't have had that fourth shot before coming to an assassination for the boss. 

"Dada!" Evelyn squeals through the dummy in her mouth. 

Again, I cover her mouth. "Oh my God, shut the fuck up, what is wrong with you?" 

"Bomb bomb bomb," she murmurs against my hand. 

"Child, be quiet." 

She waves her hand, then starts to pout when he doesn't wave back. Oh God she's gonna start crying again. I'm not even afraid that she's gonna give us away; I just don't wanna hear that godawful screeching. I bounce her on my hip, trying not to jar my rifle too much. "Hush, hush, hush, Evelyn, you're fine." 

One of the snipers from the walking track pipes up through my earpiece. "Stripes, what in the hell are you aiming at?" 

"Dealing with something." 

"The hostage's got the Professor by the throat." 

I look back to the ground floor. Sure enough, the angry little shithead has his arm around Moriarty's neck. With the squirming child in my arms, I aim for the scrawny detective's forehead. 

The doctor--Watkins? Watson? Waters?--releases the Professor. Evelyn is grunting and pointing in my arms, desperate for Moriarty's attention. I switch frequencies on the earpiece. "Listen _Jim_ ," I try my damnedest not to laugh, but it slips out anyway, "your little brat is losing her shit." 

"D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" 

Evelyn's face screws up. It's starting. Please no. I'd rather be beside an explosion than hear this child screech. "Fuck. Seriously, Prof, I don't know what to do." 

"Kill you? N-no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you." 

"This baby's about to burn you. Seriously." It's the only thing I can think to say. Why the fuck is the bastard ignoring me? 

"Well, I’d better be off." 

_THANK GOD!_

The arsehole detective continues chatting with Moriarty. Evelyn's snot is dripping off my fingertips, and I am just a hair away from tossing her into the pool below me. "All right, that's it, we're going to daddy." I dash for the stairwell to the first floor, Evelyn beginning to bawl. 

"No you won't," the criminal chimes back. I'm trying NOT to suffocate her, but sounds keep coming out of her face, and all I can do is clap my hands over her head. However, when we meet "Dada" on the threshold of the stairs, the sounds stop. The tears don't, but at least she's quieter now. 

"Hi, sweetheart," he says, pulling her from me, covering her in kisses. "Did the mean old man give you a fuss?" 

"Dadadadada," she babbles, knocking her forehead against his. 

"This is fucking bizarre," I say. "Aren't you gonna kill Holmes?" 

Moriarty gives me a dirty look. "Have you been listening to anything I said?" 

"Uh, no, actually," I snap back, "I've been trying to keep Aoife--" 

"Evelyn." 

"Evelyn from screaming." 

"Oh," he cooes, "did you miss Daddy?" 

Still pouting, Evelyn nods. The boss imitates her face, some weird sign of empathy. "Poor baby girl. It's so difficult being a baby, isn't it, my dear?" 

"You're only encouraging bad behavior," I say. I can't hide my disgust. This is the man that pays me to kill people? 

"Thank you, Dr. Spock, but I don't recall asking your opinion." He kisses Evelyn's cheek. "I've got to go back to work for just a second, sweetie, but I'll be right back." 

Evelyn mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "twenty." 

Moriarty fucking beams like a kid getting a puppy at Christmas. I feel like I've stepped into a Dali painting, mocking the laws of human interaction that I've come to rely on. "That's right, smart girl, twenty! I'll be back in twenty seconds. Show Basher how you count to twenty!" 

He hands her to me, his eyes dead serious. "This is the best fucking thing you've ever seen in your whole shitty life, do you understand me?" 

"You expect me to get excited about your kid counting?" 

"Yes because she's way ahead on the development table!" he hisses, turning his back and walking down to the pool. 

I shake my head, baffled. "I do not care!" Evelyn shoves two fingers in my face, whining. "What do you want?" She shoves another finger in my face. "Stop it." She squeals. She shoves four fingers directly into my eye. "Christ! What--oh." 

I growl in my throat. She wants me to count. _She_ can't count. So I have to count. Kind of like how Moriarty can't shoot worth a damn so I have to shoot. Before the fifth finger gets lodged up my nose, I grab her wrist and pull it away from my face. Through my earpiece, I can hear Moriarty and Holmes making little digs at each other. "Five." She beams, her grin frighteningly reminiscent of her adoptive father's. She holds up another finger from her left hand. "Six. Seven. Eight." She then holds up ten fingers. Again, I'm baffled. She points to her toes. "Uh, no, stop. Why the hell'd you leave out nine?" This is crazy. Why, after eight fingers, would you skip right to ten? What is wrong with her? 

It's a stereotyped movement. Go up one number, one finger goes up. It's one finger. Then two. Then three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. NINE. Ten. It's a pattern. It makes sense. WHY THE FUCK WOULD SHE SKIP NINE? It makes NO SENSE to skip nine, not even in Baby World. 

"Nine. Do nine fingers." I hold up her hands, spreading out her ten fingers. I try to be gentle as I fold down her pinky. "Nine." I release it, and it pops back up. "Ten. You see how that works? Eight." I fold down two fingers. Then I let one pop back up in the air. "Nine." Then the last one. "Ten. Makes sense, right?" 

She flashes her ten fingers back at me. "Twinny!" 

Face palm. I really fucking hate this kid. "I thought we were counting your toes, you infuriating little weed." 

When I look back at her, she slams her palms into my face. "Twinny!" 

Not to sound like a pansy, but she hits the eye that the hostage socked earlier. And it hurts. It's all I can do not to dropkick the baby down the steps. 

"Twinny!" she shrills again. 

"Jesus Christ, shut it!" 


	4. Loosing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's abduction. Evelyn's potty-training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not brit-picked or anything. Barely edited. So done with this chapter.

_March 2011_

Anisa climbs onto my lap once I'm situated on the sofa. The heat and weight of her resting on my thighs is delicious. Her pefect thighs straddle me so that we're chest-to-chest. Those pert (100% natural, I'm certain of it) breasts press against me, and instinctively my palms come to rest on her hips. The scent of peaches and something floral surround me. I can't keep my eyes off those full lips painted dark red. 

"Hey," she purrs, running her red-tipped fingers over my chest. We've done this a million times before, but she can still make my throat dry as a desert. I breathe deeply, pressing the weight of her against my half-hard cock. "Oh, get started before I got here?" 

I laugh. "No. Unlike your other clients, I don't need a half hour to get it up." 

"Shut up," she says before she kisses me. God, it's all just hot feminine energy, simultaneously intoxicating and invigorating. Even after three years of this, I can't get enough of Anisa. Sometimes, when I'm completely pissed, I think about asking her to marry me. She'd never go for that, though. She's a business woman first and foremost. 

Some sex workers get into the trade because they're forced to, because they have an addiction a desk job can't support or accommodate, or because there's some tragic backstory filled with loss and abandonment. But then there's workers like Anisa. Anisa is in this profession because she enjoys it, and she's fantastic at it. 

She has a rocking body, a spitfire personality and she gives head that makes grown men weep. She smokes like a train and drinks like a sailor and she can bluff like a psychopath. Most people can't hold their own against me in cards. Anisa runs circles around me. 

She is, to speak plainly, my fantasy come to life. 

Her lithe fingers comb through my hair, and I can't stop the moan that escapes my throat. Her other hand snakes between us, working to undo my flies. "There he is," she purrs again. She's only somewhat condescending. Fucking bitch. I love her. "There's my big bad tiger." 

I nip at her neck, perhaps a little rougher than the first time I paid for her services. "You ignored my call on Friday." 

She's unfazed. "I was working." 

I squeeze that tight bum, growling. "Guess you'll have to make it up to me." 

My phone pings twice in rapid succession. 

Anisa pulls back an inch or so. "You gonna answer that?" 

"Nah. Unlike some people, I have priorities." 

She leans back in. It's bizarre, because I know she's only toying with me, that I'm making a fool of myself, but holy shit, it is so worth it, and I don't even care. "I have priorities. Myself and whoever's paying for my time." She kisses me slow and deep. My head is spinning. 

Another ping. 

"I really think you should check that." 

"Baby, nothing, not even the Professor is gonna interrupt this," I say, referring to our mutual boss. I reach for the phone on the coffee table and silence it. "Now then..." 

I lay back, letting her pin me. Some predator instinct clicks on in her brain, and her hand is on my throat. Her teeth on my lips. Her breasts pressing against my chest, pressing me deeper into the couch. 

We're half-undressed when her phone rings. I'm disturbed that it's the BeeGees' "Staying Alive." The Professor's ringtone. In the blink of an eye, she's off my lap, rummaging through her purse. I groan. 

"Ani, please, just ignore it." 

"I can't. It's M." 

"He's more important than me?" I pout. 

She raises an eyebrow. "You make sure a million pounds finds its way into my back account every quarter, and we'll chat." 

My body chills in her absence. There's something painfully hollow about leaving an intimate embrace. It's like when you're all warm and cozy under a blanket and then you become aware of one untucked corner, cooling whatever part of you is exposed. 

I take some deep breaths, palming my erection. I hear her speaking in hushed tones. "Hurry it up or I'm finishing without you." 

"No skin off my nose," she answers from the kitchen. "You're not that desperate, anyway." 

I sit up, listening intently. I can't quite make out what she's saying, so I hang out in the kitchen threshold, noting her anxious expression. 

"No, I know, I won't tell a soul.... Yeah, he's here. ... I'll tell him. All right. Take care, Gruner." 

I grin at her. "What are you gonna tell me?" 

"M's been collared. Check your phone." The dark skin of her face seems bloodless. 

I scoff. "If he's been collared it's because he chose to be collared." 

"Bash, I'm a little concerned." 

"I can see that." I hold out my arms to her. "C'mere. Forget about it. Just come--" 

"Check your phone, Tiger. The Professor left a very important message for you." 

I roll my eyes. "That dramatic bastard has no respect for boundaries." I flash her a lascivious grin. "It's my day off. Please?" 

She storms past me into the den, grabbing my phone off the coffee table and hurling it at me. It smacks into my chest, and it's more luck than skill that I catch it before it hits the ground. Her arms over her chest, she watches me, silently urging me to check the damn device. 

"Oh for fuck's sake!" I unlock it and check the three texts from The Professor. 

_22:34 Ecstacy shipment._

_22:34 Under 44._

_22:35 Dubai._

Unfortunately, I know exactly what "Jim" is trying to tell me. That fucker was getting in my head. 

Ecstacy equals E equals Evelyn. 

44 equals his apartment on 4th Street on the fourth floor. 

Dubai...Moriarty has a rule about locations ending texts in situations where communication wasn't secure. It's actually incredibly effective. Canada and Mexico almost went to war with Greenland because of the Professor's red herrings. 

God. Damn. It. 

I paid up front for the night with Anisa. 

She is expensive. 

She does not give refunds under any circumstances. 

"Fuuuuck," I groan, flopping backwards onto an armchair. 

Anisa is getting more concerned. "What is it?" 

I stare at her, contemplating telling her the whole story about Jim's adopted weed. Women are biologically programmed to care for kids, right? Sharing that tidbit of information with Anisa could be beneficial because, oh my God, I am not going to care for this fucking child. 

I'm not. 

Because Moriarty's little orphan girl is not my responsibility. I didn't sign up for this shit. 

I play cards. I kill people. That's how I pay the bills. That's how I pay for Anisa. 

It's an incredibly freeing realization. I'm under no obligation to get the little brat. And surely The Professor has told other employees. He knows me well enough (because the bastard spies -- he doesn't even bother to hide it anymore) that he can't possibly expect me to go. Even if he asked, he had to know that I'd refuse. 

I pretend to text back, just to soothe Anisa's anxiety. I toss my phone to the side, and stalk over to her. "Taken care of," I grin, voice low. She doesn't believe me. 

Ugh, this is why I should've stayed to my "one girl, one time" rule. She knows me too well, and we share an employer. She has a vested interest in making sure that Moriarty's operations run smoothly in his absence. 

"Listen, ok, I'm gonna take of it tomorrow. It's just a drug shipment he wants moved." 

"Go move it now. We've got all night." 

"Babe, no one wants this shipment. Trust me." I pull her oh-so-close-let's-pretend-like-we're-a-legit-couple. "Please? For me? I've been in Somalia all week. Don't I deserve something nice?" I give her puppy dog eyes. 

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Eh, what the hell, right?" 

"Yes!" I shout as I lift her off the ground, urging her to wrap those sinful legs around my waist. "You won't regret it." I kiss her again. Before I met Anisa, I thought it was stupid that wars had been fought over women, but, damn, if Helen of Troy could kiss half as well as Anisa, I coudn't blame What's His Name. 

"You're lucky you're fit," she growls. "I don't let my customers manhandle me." 

I just laugh. I'm hard as hell and positively giddy with the promise of some serious fucking with a really hot woman. Once we're in my bedroom, I press her into the bed, kissing deep and hard, urging her surrender. 

Her blouse comes off, followed closely by mine. God, the feel of her bare breasts against me, those hardening nipples brushing against my chest hair.... I can't wait to lick them, to kiss them, to suck them. My arms slip beneath her waist, bringing her closer to me, her hips flush against mine. "Oh Anisa," I breathe because she just pulls it out of me. The smoothness of her skin, the fullness of her lips, the heat of her kisses all compel me to speak her name, to worship her, to inhale everything that she's willing to offer. 

Her long, elegant fingers stroke both sides of my face. 

_"Twinny."_

The vision of that spaz's pudgy palms thrusting upwards to slap me in the face springs into my mind's eye. 

Annoyance courses through me. Jesus Christ, how did she miss nine? How the hell has the human race survived when babies are so fucking dumb and disgusting? 

God, she's probably not even a baby anymore. It's been...almost a year since she skipped nine at the pool. 

No, since my idiot employer failed to get rid of that weird detective and his lovesick doctor-blogger. 

God, the whole event just fucking infuriates me! 

"You all right, Tiger?" 

"Yeah, completely." 

"You sure?" 

"Yes." 

Anisa shakes her head with a knowing smile. Normally her smart-arsery is adorable; right now, it's just annoying. "No. You're focused on something else." 

"Yeah, about that, shouldn't you be distracting me?" 

"Don't make this about me, little Tiger." She taps my nose. "I think you're feeling guilty about M." 

I take a breath and review my options. One, leave Evelyn to fend for herself. Two, leave Anisa with the goddamn money. Three, take Anisa to Evelyn. 

I curse again. 

~~

I find Evelyn under The Professor's bed, and it looks like she's been crying. God, she's gotten so big, and yet she's still so little. 

I offer her my hand. "Hey, kid. You remember me?" 

She retreats further under the bed, shaking her head. She's remarkably silent. I sigh, making my aggravation clear. "Come on, rugrat." 

She shakes her head again. 

I make a grab for her ankle, and she lets out a blood-curdling scream. 

"Christ, Sebastian, stop!" Anisa hisses, tugging me by my shoulder. "God, this is why I hate kids." 

I look up at her, grinning. "I think I'm in love with you." 

She kicks at my head, and I dodge it easily. "We'll get her. Don't worry. Go see if you can find some kinda sleep medication." 

"I don't drug children." 

"Well _you_ don't have to." 

She seems satisfied with that answer, and she disappears into the master bedroom. 

"Evelyn, come on now, you don't remember me?" I ask. "I work for your dad." 

The word "dad" seems to set her off, and blessedly quiet tears pour out of her eyes. I once read an article about the scent of female tears actually reducing testosterone production, and I wondered if that was what was happening now, because something akin to pity settled in my chest, and when I say that, I mean I could actually tangibly feel it. Pity feels a lot like mucus. 

"Hey, kiddo, what's wrong? You wanna tell Basher?" 

She shakes her head again. 

"You want some candy?" God knows why I asked. I don't have candy. 

This gets her attention. She avoids eye contact, but she visibly relaxes, curiosity battling her fear. She licks her lips, but stays quiet. 

Anisa returns, holding a couple of bottles of some prescription meds and some over-the-counter meds. "So, is Moriarty gay?" I can only imagine what she found in his medicine cabinet to make her ask that. 

I rise my eyebrows at her. "Obviously?" 

"Really?" 

"How many straight men do you know who own that many tailored suits?" 

She gives me a cheeky grin. "You don't know my clientele. It's just, I don't know, weird, a good Catholic boy like you, working for a homosexual." 

I laugh. "You don't know what I do for a living." 

She gives me a knowing look. "Are you one of his rentboys?" 

I glare at her. "No." 

"I don't believe you." 

"Bitch." 

"Slut." 

I take one of the opaque blue bottles from her to examine it. "Only for you, Ani." 

Anisa gets to her knees, looking under the bed. "Hi little girl, I've gotta lovely surprise for you." 

"Yeah, no, we're not giving her Vicodin." 

"I'm sure it'll be fine if we half it." 

"No. Not unless it's baby Vicodin." 

"How old is she?" 

"I don't know. Like three or four or something?" 

"You sure?" 

"Not at all. Hey, Evelyn, how old are you?" 

She holds up two fingers. The memory of her skipping the ninth finger plays in my head again. 

Anisa looks at me, repulsed. "That's a bit young, isn't it?" 

"Huh?" 

"Like, is she working for him?" 

The suggestion that the Professor might be pimping out a toddler makes my stomach turn. "No, no, he literally adopted her. Maybe not legally, but he's not, like, pimping her out or anything." I pause. "Would you really work for someone involved in kiddie porn?" 

"I'll work for whoever pays the bills." 

I frown again. I'm not entirely comfortable with that answer. Not enough to send her away, though. This is why I don't get involved. If someone's willing to work for someone with those sorts of interests, it's usually indicative that something's not all right. 

"I'm just not even gonna think about that." 

"Didn't realize my tiger was such a softie." 

"Tiga!" 

Evelyn is crawling closer now. "Tiga!" She's pointing at me. 

"What?" 

She pulls something from behind her, a couple of sheets of paper. Palming through them in that ridiculously uncoordinated way that toddlers do, she finds the one she wants and hands it to me. 

It's definitely Moriarty's handwriting. And doodling. Moriarty doodles sometimes during business meetings. This is not one of his typical violence-strewn doodles; it's a quick sketch of Evelyn and a tiger with my features. 

"Tiga," she says again, looking up at me expectantly. 

"Oh fuck," I groan. That scrawny bastard knew I would come to get her. 

She crawls out from under the bed and grabs my arm. "Get dada." 

"Get him? I don't know where he is." 

"Get," she persists. 

Holy shit, talking to toddlers is hard. "No. I can't. I don't know where he is." 

Her eyes fill up with fear. "Lost?" 

"Uh, no. No. Shit." I look to Anisa. "What should I do. . . ?" 

Anisa looks positively floored that I would ask her that, like she actually gives a shit. "Take her to a police station?" 

"Uh no." 

Anisa rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I'm bored of this. I'm going to go explore. Tell me when it's time to drug the rugrat." 

~~

The Professor has left me a ton of instructions. The weed is apparently in the process of toilet-training, meaning she's not ready for "big girl pants" (as The Professor puts it), but they do have "potty trips." Also, she's allergic to red food coloring, which I doubt is true because how the fuck is someone allergic to colors? She can only have sugary cereals on Sundays, but that's not even something I'm going to enforce, and I'm supposed to read a science-y book to her every night, which is also not going to fucking happen. 

It infuriates me that he just assumed I'd show up. But he was right. After Anisa leaves in the morning, and after I've gotten plenty of sleep AND changed the sheets on his bed, I thumb through his notes. 

Apparently I was supposed to take Evelyn to a playgroup this morning, but that didn't happen, which is probably for the best. She'd had a healthy dose of baby triaminic. A strange man taking a hung-over two-year-old to play group probably would've gotten me arrested. 

It's eleven when she wakes up, shouting, "Dada! Fadda! Dada! Bombombomb!" 

When she sees me in her doorway, she screams bloody murder. 

"No! Stop it! It's me, remember?" 

"Tiga?" 

"Probably." I am wildly uncomfortable with her calling me that. "Let's try something else, though? Like, um..." I look around her room. There's a ridiculous number of stuffed toys in her crib. And on her shelves. And in the floor. 

I can't name most of them. 

"Tigger? How about I be Tigger?" 

She isn't paying attention. Or maybe she is. I don't know, because I'm not sure what "mouthing on the railing of my crib" means in tot body language. 

"Yeah, you probably shouldn't chew on that." 

She giggles through her mouthful of railing. 

Whatever. 

"Nappy gross!" Her lips don't quite connect on the "puh" sound, so it almost sounds like "na..y." Have I mentioned how bizarre and irritating I find small humans? 

_Oh fuck. Oh fuck._

_No._

I know that I _have_ to do this, but holy shit, I do not want to. The memory of her godawful stench the night Moriarty found her comes back to me, and it's all I can do not to vomit. It's weird, isn't it? I've seen people shit themselves from fear or dying or being severely wounded or sick, and its never really bothered me; still doesn't. But the idea of changing a nappy absolutely repels me. 

"Gross," she says, nodding her head. 

"You're gross," I grumble. 

I know that adults do this all the time, that babies need to be kept clean, but working with the people that I work with, and having no idea what happened to her before we--before Moriarty found her on the dock, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of changing her, and it's more than just the disgust at human waste. 

The process doesn't phase her at all. The little weed pees on me, then laughs maniacally. 

After I change Moriarty's sheets AGAIN (and I fully intend to sleep in that bed again tonight because it's the comfiest mattress I've ever slept on, and I'm secure enough in my masculinity to sleep in another's man's bed in his absence...probably), she's screaming about "Time for eggies, time for eggies!" 

So, I make us some eggs. When I set them down in front of her, she gives me the most disdainful looks I've ever seen. 

"These not eggies." 

I want to hit her. "These is eggies," I snap back. 

"Nope," she says, shaking her head like I'm a lost cause. How is this kid so condescending with only, like, ten teeth? 

That seems like a lot of teeth, actually. While I'm googling how many teeth a two-year-old should have, she flings her scrambled eggs at my face. 

By 15:00, the little shit is going stircrazy. She's pacing the house with her weird off-balance toddler gait. I'm certain she's learned this behavior from Moriarty. It's crazy how much she does actually look like him, despite the dark skin and traditionally African features. I think it's the dark eyes and the way she smiles. 

She rambles to herself, occasionally picking up pillows and stuffed toys to put in her mouth or to chat with. Sometimes she tries to engage me, but she usually goes away if I pretend to be asleep. 

Then, she grabs my hand with this vice-like grip. "Loo, loo, loo," she says urgently. 

"You have to go?" 

She nods. 

"So, go." 

"Loooooo," she says again. 

"Nothing is stopping you, child." 

And then she just collapses, her head buried in the sofa, muffling her screams. The change in her demeanor is terrifying. One minute, it's time to pee, the next, it's time for _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. I spin her around so that she's facing me. "What? What is your problem?" 

"Loo!" 

I cave and walk to the wc with her, only for her to shut the door in my face. She offers some babble-soaked explanation that I don't follow, and then we sit in silence, separated by a closed door. Why the fuck am I here? Seriously, what is my contribution? Surely it's more than beating my head against the door as quietly as possible, cursing Moriarty and my own willingness to be here. 

I think I must doze off, because suddenly I'm jolting up in response to the wet cascades pelting my face. Evelyn is laughing. "Oh my God, that had better be water." 

"Washee 'ands." 

"How about dryee 'ands?" 

She laughs, looking very smug. She makes a grabby motion for my hand. "Yook." 

I stare at her. 

The grabby motion intensifies. "Yoook!" she demands. 

"No!" Only, she looks like she's about to start screaming again, so I let myself be led into the room, praying she's only showing me that she knows how to use the flush function. 

"Yook," she says, breathless. 

Sure enough, the world's tiniest shit sits at the bottom of her tiny practice potty. And I looked at it. 

I saw a shit I didn't have to. 

"Ok, I looked, off we go," I say, looking away and fumbling to dump it into the toilet to flush it. 

When the water starts running, she screams, "No no no no no!" 

This leads to about ten minutes of her screaming and crying and refusing to look at me and hiding in the cupboards just out of my reach. 

~~

She battles sleep every night for the first week. In fact, by the fourth night, she helps me set up an Iron Man tent in front of the door of the flat. She cries when Moriarty doesn't walk through the door. 

We struggle through the first week. I figure it's best to stop feeding her whatever the hell she wants and start following The Professor's Nutrition Plan. The fact that he had that written up because he knew he would be gone a long time and because he knew I wouldn't abandon his goddamn little weed infuriates me. 

Things get a little easier, more routine. We limp along. She still cries. She scribbles all over paper and has me "post" it. I take her to Play Group, where the mothers fawn over me, pleased to meet "Adam's partner." 

I see a kid I recognize from last year, the one that Moriarty kidnapped and would've killed if Holmes had answered wrong. I wonder if my boss met the old lady I shot here as well. 

A month in Moriarty's disappearance, she gets it in her head that I'm her "papa," telling me that she really misses "before dada." I've got a better handle on her gibberish now, so I ask, "Where do you think your dad went?" (I'd read the day before that you should still speak to little ones in full sentences even if they can't answer in full sentences.) The truth is I cannot handle another Play Group Mum trying to guilt into providing a "healthy, nutritious" snack for all the kids. I want my boss back so that I can have my old life back, and anything she can tell me might enable me to track him down. 

She raises her hands above her head and says, "jus' poof!" 

"What's that mean?" 

"Dis ears." 

"You think he just disappeared?" 

She nods, shoving a single bite of dry cereal into her mouth. "Poof." 

"Did he say anything to you before he disappeared?" 

She babbles about the shark book we read last night. 

~~

The Ice Man, apparently, just lets Moriarty walk free one day in early May. All I get is a text with an address, and I choose not to bring Evelyn, lest the whole thing be a trap. 

I drop Evelyn off at one of her playgroup friends' flat, my rifle bag already packed, cleverly disguised as a tennis racket. It's most likely a trap, but if it's not, I've got a lot of bitching to unload on Jim Goddamn Moriarty for leaving me with his shit-voyeur moppet. 

Moriarty barely acknowledges me when I pick him up from some reserve in High Weald. He looks like hell. One eye is swollen shut, the other one not far behind. His arms and fingers are stiff, covered in burns. He's likely been electrocuted. His eyes, while always soulless, now look lifeless. . His skin is stretched over his skull, the fullness of his cheeks gone. 

He reeks, too, of infection and burnt skin and urine. 

It's a half hour into the drive back to the city that I finally manage to ask, "Hospital?" 

He half-smirks. "Home." 

"Let's at least get you some new clothes. You smell like a barn." 

He rolls his head slowly to look at me, something very serpertine about the motion. "I want to see Evelyn." 

"You'll frighten her, looking like that." 

He flexes his stiff fingers, which now look pale blue. "I've decided how I'm going to kill Sherlock Holmes," he says, his voice hollow. 

I nod slowly, because how the fuck does someone answer that? This isn't how I saw Moriarty's return playing out. I fully intended on giving him hell for leaving me with his weedchild. After a lull, I ask, "Need help?" 

"Nope." 

Another long pause. I had never realized the humanity of Moriarty, but apparently, there was at least a small percentage within him. He'd been affected by torture. He'd survived, obviously, and clearly he hadn't ratted me out because Ice Man hadn't beaten down the door to get to me or any of his other snipers. 

Seeing him like this was a little unnerving. He is the Professor...no one ever gets to him. Or, at least, they hadn't until now. 

"Your fucking kid showed me her shit," I offer up, eager to cut the tension. 

There's a small, nearly imperceptible change in his posture. "Not in the closet, right?" 

I blink. "Er, no, what? It was in the actual toilet bowl! Should I have been checking the closet?" 

His eyes brighten, and he smiles as much as his swollen face allows. It actually tears one of the cuts on his lip, and he bleeds. "Hate I missed it." 

And that's when I decide that yes, Moriarty was inhuman enough that I could light into him for leaving me with Evelyn for a couple of months.


	5. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim shoots himself in the head. Evelyn says goodbye to Basher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. A little choppy. This has been the shittiest week of my life. Cat cancer, bird death, grandpa death, and I voted early, and I'm sorta just like fuck it.
> 
> Also I just realized on editing that this deviates slightly in that there is an actual Moran in the show. . . so just fuck that shit. Pretend either that that Moran is completely unrelated or he's got a different name.

_November, 2011_

James Moriarty shot himself. 

I watched him shoot himself. 

He’s dead. 

_Fuck._

My pulse, always steady even under pressure, booms in my ears with a quickening pace. The fight or flight instinct is in full-swing: my entire being is tense and numb and hot. I try to breathe. Try to breathe. 

“What the hell, prof?” I hiss. 

I pack up my shit, quick as I can, and make my way from Smithfield to Islington. I have to get to Evelyn before the Ice Man does. I don’t know what my plan is; I don’t know what his plan was. 

I don’t want to be stuck with Moriarty’s pet weed. I don’t want to give up my life of whores and early morning runs and shooting and cards, and I can’t say that I will. I just have to get to her. 

I grab a cab; it’ll leave a trail, I know, but speed is more important than caution at this point. Everything’s falling apart. My career. My life. The empire. 

The life that Evelyn might’ve had. 

And, for the love of God, I cannot tell you why that bothers me. It’s _her_ life, _her_ problem. She annoys the hell out of me. 

When she saw Moriarty after he'd been held captive, she ran back into her room, and she cried for a long time. When he knelt to comfort her, she kicked him and hit him, and asked who he was. 

The Professor just let her. When she tired herself out, he picked her up and promised to never, ever leave her again. 

And yet, here we are. The fucking madman. The shit-eating, promise-breaking maniac has left his daughter. Again. 

I suddenly remember the story of Jim Jones, the Kool-Aid Cult Leader, whose flock died in one massive wave of suicides. I feel cold all over. 

I brace myself for the image of Evelyn’s tiny little body, lifeless. 

Who knows what the Professor’s concocted? Maybe she’s a lure. Maybe as soon as I open the door, a bomb will go off, or an axe will fall on me. 

Still, I can't stop myself. I toss cash at the driver, hoping its enough and dash up to the fourth floor of the building. I don’t even try the doorknob, I just ram the door down, and in my panic, I don’t even feel the break of my collarbone. 

“Evelyn!” I scream. “Evelyn, we have to go!” 

No answer. My stomach drops. Had something happened to her? Was she dead? Had Jim killed her? Had she gotten sick? 

Cold dread claws its way up my spine. Goddamn that motherfucking child. And her suicidal bastard coward of a father. 

It makes sense of course, that she wouldn’t be home alone, by herself. I can’t imagine though that she’s still going to Play Group since “Rich” has been fingered as Holmes’s Pretend Villain. 

Breathless, I slump onto the sofa. Why the fuck had Moriarty shot himself? What had happened? Something must’ve changed, right? What if…? 

My mind goes wild with ways Evelyn could’ve been eliminated. 

Oh my God. 

Oh my God. 

_She’s so little._

No. She’s. Not. My. God. Damn. Problem. 

_Stop._

Through gusty, icy wind and rain, I hurry to a church. I’m not really sure why, my last confession was just last week, but. . . 

God, she is so little. 

Her whole entire little bitty hand held my thumb last year. She fell asleep while I read to her about outer space and dinosaurs and sharks. She called me “Tiga.” And then “Papa.” 

The idea that something could happen to her that could erase all that. . . 

Do I need a church or a pint? 

She’s not my problem. 

~~

I feel a little better after confession and acetaminophen. Like I can remember who I am. The little girl is not my problem. Neither is Moriarty. 

I’m Colonel Sebastian Moran. Dishonorably discharged for forcing prisoners to play Russian Roulette, killing endangered large cats and selling their skins, and, unofficially, sleeping with the Major General’s daughter on her eighteenth birthday. 

And so I’m okay with never knowing. I think. 

I walk home, rain washing down my face. My jeans feel heavy and stick to me. Water has seeped into my boots. Why anyone would move to this godforsaken section of the world is beyond me. 

Maybe I’ll go back to India. I’ve got connections there. I’m in good standing with Madam Vora; maybe she’d hire me as a bodyguard. I can’t stay here, though. With Moriarty gone, who knows what information will come to light. I laugh, thinking about my dad’s face if and when the Daily Mail breaks the story about the ex-colonel-turned-assassin for pretend-actor Rich Brook/James Moriarty. Maybe the bastard will lose his job. He should. He is a shitty ambassador. 

God, this day has been a wild fucking ride. 

But I’m okay. I’m always okay. 

I wonder what Anisa’s doing. . . 

“Tiga!” 

I turn around and see a head black curls bouncing beneath the herd of umbrellas and busy passersby. She is running clumsily towards me, and I’m afraid that maybe Moriarty drugged me, that maybe I’m being ushered into heaven. Fuck, maybe that’s why I felt compelled to go to confession. 

Then she trips, laughs, and continues running towards me. “Papa Tiga!” Angels tripping isn’t mentioned in the Bible, so I assume this is reality. 

Not that Evelyn is an angel. She’s a pain in my arse. 

“Quickly, sweetheart,” a voice calls from the crowd. It’s Moriarty’s, I’m sure of it, but he’s lost in the crowd. 

She leaps at me, and on instinct, I catch her. She plants a big wet kiss on my cheek. “Bye bye, Papa Tiga!” 

“Hi, sweet--Evelyn. Hi Evelyn. What are you--where’s--are you okay?” 

“Um, I’m just really frustrated that we’re out of strawberries.” 

God, she is so annoying. Her “r”s are “w”s or virtually non-existent. This shit is exactly what you get when you read to your fucking kids. They talk pretentious bullshit about fruit before they can manage fucking proper pronunciation. 

“Don’t feel too excited, Basher; she also insisted on saying goodbye to her dentist.” 

Moriarty, sporting a bizarre moustache and bright blue contacts, is about two feet away from me, under a garish, cartoon-themed umbrella. Something looks a little different, but it’s definitely him. Probably some weird plaster thing. He’s done it to break into nursing homes before. 

“Doc Yama gave me dis!” She thrusts a lolly in my eye. I want to dropkick her into traffic. 

“What--You . . . Boss, how are you alive?” 

“No time, Bash.” 

Evelyn wriggles out of my arms and runs under the umbrella of her father. “Yeah, Tiga, no time. We’re riding a shooting star!” 

“You’re going to be sorely disappointed, my dear,” Moriarty says. “It’s a train.” 

“It’s a shooting star!” 

“Eurostar.” 

She laughs, as Moriarty turns her away, a suitcase rolling behind them. 

I watch them walk away, the rain easing up to an aggressive drizzle. “What--Stop--” I catch up and block the wheel of the suitcase with the soaked toe of my boot. He gives me a death glare. I return it. “Just. . . call me if you run into trouble.” 

Moriarty considers this in his strange reptilian way. “I’ve left you a note.” He offers his hand. “Good luck, _Colonel_.” 

It dawns on me that I’ve never actually touched Moriarty. His hands are pristine, clear of any evidence that he’d shot himself in the head an hour and a half ago, nails perfectly manicured, his fingers thin and delicate. It seems weird to shake his hand now when I’ll probably never see him again. 

His hand is so small in my own. How the fuck does he plan to protect his little weed with those lean, unworked hands? I give his hand a quick shake, and he turns to go, but now Evelyn wants to shake my hand. 

“No, get outta here.” 

“Shake her hand,” Moriarty murmurs. 

“Don’t you have star to catch?” 

“Shake my hand!” Evelyn demands. 

“Quickly, Basher,” Moriarty growls. “We really can’t be in one place for too long.” 

I sigh and bend down to take Evelyn’s hand. Oh my God, her hand is even smaller. Her small, fragile little hand. Who is going to protect her? 

It’s not my problem. It’s not. 

Moriarty made his choice. He picked fake suicide. He picked adopting a throwaway kid. He picked this life. It’s his shit to sort out. 

Seconds later, he’s gone, blended into the fabric of London’s transience. 

I feel quiet. Empty. What’s next? 

I pop into a pub, grab a pint, start a fight, then hit my place to pack or find Moriarty’s note or maybe just get pissed. I’ll sort out the other details later. The adrenaline wears off and the fracture in my collar bone is impossible to ignore. 

~~

_Basher,_  
_Charles Augustus Magnusson is taking over the murder brokerage. You'll be his for assassinations, intimidation, etc. So, essentially, he’d be your pimp. Which is fine, you’re sort of a whore anyway. ;) Expect a call from him tonight._  
_It’s been fun, Tiger._  
_Kisses, Jim.  
P.S. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about Evelyn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave nice things. Next chapter will be pretty intense.


	6. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn is kidnapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me. I just want to be cool like all the other fic writers.

_December, 2011_

“I can’t find Evelyn.” 

I turn my attention away from the scope of my L96 and stare at the screen of my mobile, an unknown number illuminating the darkness of the alleyway. After a beat, I ask, "She's lost or she's been taken?" 

Magnussen had informed me that there was talk of my former employer surviving his suicide. I hadn’t confirmed it, just in case, but I’m sure he knows. There’s very little Magnussen doesn’t know. 

But if there’s talk that Moriarty is alive, there could very well be a bounty on his head…. Someone could’ve come for Evelyn. 

The Professor's voice quavers. "Taken." 

My stomach lurches, and my heart beats harder than I care to admit. 

“Where are you?” 

~~

Fourteen hours later, after a chat with Mags, who is such a fucking arsehole (he's docking my pay because of I'm not immediately returning to London), and three cups of cheap airline coffee, I’ve left the warmth and sun of Mexico City and landed in the winter wasteland that is Bern, Switzerland. 

God, I really fucking hate Europe. 

I arrive at this little farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a nice little scene, the snow falling gently, smoke rising out of the chimney, except there’s a glaring pinprick of blood in the corner of the yard. Worse still, there are two police cars in the driveway. 

I exit the vehicle, bracing myself for whatever will happen next. Has Moriarty’s cover been blown? Is this a sting? Did he throw me under the bus? Has the Professor actually called the police to investigate? Civilian now or not, it seems very unlike the Professor to call in coppers. 

My stomach sinks. 

_What if they found her…?_

I think back to a funeral I worked in Afghanistan. A camel breeder’s son had been killed by one of my men. It was well-known the breeder had connections to extremist groups, and I was there to kill him. At the time, it hadn’t bothered me, seeing his child in the ground. Now the image keeps popping up in my mind, making me uneasy. I have to actively ward away the image of Moriarty's weed child in an identical grave. It makes it difficult to breathe. 

I try to keep cool as I head to the front door. I've done my research, after all. If I need to escape, the woods behind the cottage are a kilometer and a half deep, backing up to a river. It probably hasn’t frozen over completely, but I can likely escape without getting wet. I wish I had followed through with my idea to plant a back-up vehicle at the petrol station across the river. 

I’ll be ok. I’m always ok. I palm the buck knife inside my coat pocket. I’ve been shot and stabbed and burned before. I can handle this. 

Before I can knock, my ex-employer is wrapping his arms around my waist, speaking lowly. “Professor Addison O’Neill. You’re Elliott, a family friend.” 

I pat his shoulder, trying to make it seem like this is a warm embrace, but mostly I just feel uncomfortable and a little agitated that he’s assigning roles at fucking performance time. “Police?” I ask, trying to keep my lips still. 

He looks up at me, those black eyes one hundred percent Moriarty. “A necessary evil,” he breathes. Then his eyes soften, and I swear to God I hadn’t realized he’d been crying until just now. Like, I think he actually made his red in the time that it took to say “a necessary evil." In the blink of an eye, The Professor went from grieving father, to villainous mastermind, back to grieving Father. The way he bats around human emotion terrifies me, frankly. 

He lets go just as one of the officers steps closer, and says something to Moriarty in French. Moriarty answers, motioning to me. He looks exhausted now that there’s some distance between us. I worry it’s because he’s been up all night disposing of Evelyn’s remains. The Prof was never very good at disposal, surprisingly. In theory, he was; not so much in practice. He's too impatient to dissolve a body in acid, and he's too concerned about spatter to do the dismembering himself. 

He turns back to me. “They cut off her finger.” Again, there’s all the venom and loathing in his face, replacing the feigned (maybe?) sorrow. 

_Jesus fucking Christ, her tiny little fingers._

_Someone is going to fucking eat their own goddamn eyeballs._

“She’s being held for ransom,” Moriarty says, a murderous grin on his face, turned so the officers can’t see. That face is the face of the man who hired me, the face of the man who opened our very first meeting with, “How comfortable are you removing vital organs while the “donor” is still breathing?” 

So someone knows that he survived. 

A million questions are burning the tip of my tongue. I have no idea how to behave like a civilian in this situation. The weight of the buck knife in my pocket is the only thing keeping me grounded. 

“So why are we sitting here?” I glare at the two officers. 

I realize for the first time that Moriarty’s grayed around his temples. Why the hell hasn’t he paid the ransom? God, I hate him so much. 

Moriarty turns back to the coppers and says something that sends them off to another room, sending the devastated father sympathetic glances. 

I grab the little shit by the collar. “Why the fuck don’t you just pay them?” 

“I am, you idiot!” 

“When?” 

“As soon as they call me,” he says, and oh my God, his voice falters. There’s something like fear in his eyes. He’s not acting. Or maybe he is. “They. . . said they’d . . .” 

“Prof?” 

“Basher. . .” His bottom lip trembles slightly. 

A surreal feeling of sympathy for my old boss blooms in my chest. This is not real life. I release him, and he stands there frozen, his black eyes wide and full of fear. 

“Any idea who it might be?” 

He shakes his head, fear painted across his face. Then he seems to snap out of it. He takes a deep breath, cracks his neck, and sets his shoulders. Those empty black eyes stare back at me, void of any feeling. His bottom lip stiffens, his jaw set. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and he’s Moriarty again. 

“No. But find her. That’s an order. I’ll pay you whatever you want. And put down the animals that did this,” he says softly. He tilts his head ever so slightly, a playful albeit small smirk tugging at his mouth. "I want someone's finger. I don't care whose." 

See, this is something I can handle. This interaction is familiar and comfortable. I don’t question what is real from Moriarty when he’s like this, because I know that void where his heart should be is real. 

~~

The Swiss police should be ashamed, because tracking these kidnapping fuckers is a walk in the park. I have an unearned reputation as an expert tracker because I tracked a wounded tiger down a drain. I say "unearned" because the damn tiger was actively bleeding his way to the drain; anyone with the ability to see red could "track" the beast. Knowing Moriarty, knowing his observational skills and his powers of deduction, I’m a bit baffled that he couldn’t find them on his own. 

A romantic might say he was legitimately too disturbed about his daughter’s disappearance to notice the tell-tale signs that someone had recently been through the woods. And, while a romantic might say it (and I certainly don't consider myself a romantic), I wouldn’t voice my disagreement. 

Their footprints end at the foot of the forest; the same corner of the yard speckled with blood. I’m guessing that’s why the coppers hadn’t found them. With the right skill set or even the right equipment, moving through the trees is simple enough. So while they hadn’t left footprints indicating where they’d gone, they had knocked powdery snow off of the trees so that flashes of dead gray bark and bright green pine stuck out among the white like lightning. 

I follow their trail across the river (cracked ice here and there, indicative of too much undisplaced weight) to a series of footprints, now mostly covered in by the snow, along a backroad. There have been maybe four or five cars pass through in recent hours. What catches my eye is the wet, recently disturbed mud. Someone had parked their car here and hadn’t bothered to cover their tire tracks. They’d been here a while, with the vehicle on, melting the snow and the earth beneath, creating fresh mud. It looked as though they might even have gotten stuck. 

I follow the tire tracks even after it the sky grows dark. 

~~

My knife digs into some chubby little shit's throat in the kitchen of some abandoned house. His buddies are all downstairs, oblivious to his predicament. And even if they weren't, I’ve jammed their mobile signals, so I’m not worried about anyone calling for help. 

I should ask him why they’re doing this, what his goddamn motive is for hurting my little girl. 

Instead . . . 

The knife slices beneath his earlobe through the epidermis, connective tissue, lower and deeper to sever the trachea, then the epiglottis. He tries to scream, but his vocal cords are in pieces. My hand over his mouth keeps his fight for oxygen silent. He struggles, struggles, struggles, then goes limp. 

The kitchen is dark. I tug off his shoes, careful to avoid getting blood on my own shoes. Once my feet are jammed into his tiny shoes, I pull his barely-alive body flush against mine. The idiot keeps his gun stuffed down the back of his trousers. (My guess is he was supposed to “stand guard.” He did a bang-up job, I’m sure.) I retrieve it, my hands covered with a cloth to avoid leaving evidence. Once it’s in his hand, I close my hand over his and test out his mobility. He’s shorter than I am, but I think I can adjust my aim enough to do the job. 

And so, with my newly dead human shield/framed murderer, I head toward the basement. 

I don’t recognize any of these fuckers. I don’t recognize the language, I don’t recognize the graffiti scrawled along the wall, I don’t recognize the MO. 

I don’t care. 

_pop_

I don't bother to announce myself. I just watch the group register my presence as one man goes down. All eyes are on me, shortly followed by all weapons. Well, they think, anyway. This is amateur hour; they don’t even know how to hold a gun. Half of them have their guns cocked to the side, undoubtedly something they’ve seen in movies. 

_pop_

Another one goes down. 

A bullet whizzes through the air a half-meter to my left. 

“Where’s my little girl?” I ask. 

“Huh?” 

_pop_

“Where’s. My. Little. Girl?” A bullet burrows its way into Mr. Huh’s shoulder. 

Suddenly there’s a lot of screaming and panicking, as if the severity of their situation has just dawned on them. 

“Shut up!” I bellow, taking down some fucker who wants to be a hero and lunges at me. 

“Please,” someone says, “please, it was a joke. You know, a joke.” I can’t place the accent. 

I laugh. “Oh I get it.” 

I shoot her between the eyes. 

“That’s fucking hilarious." I grab some punk kid by the hair and hold the gun against his temple. "Really. It's hilarious." 

The fucker starts to cry. 

_pop_

There’s only a few left now. The one I shot in the shoulder stands to charge me. I make my human shield pull the trigger, issuing a bullet through Shoulder Victim’s eye. "Hysterical, in fact! I can't stop" _pop_ "fucking" _pop_ "laughing." 

“I can’t stop laughing!” I repeat and for the first time, I realize I’m shouting. I realize that I’m positively livid. That my blood is boiling. I want to bash their heads against one another until brain matter paints the wall. 

There’s a series of _pop_ s as the remaining few try to off me, but mostly their instincts are telling them to _pull the trigger, maybe the loud sound will scare away the predator_ and collectively their aim has gotten infinitely worse. 

When there’s one left, I wait until he’s out of ammo, until he’s hurled his weapon at me in one final attempt at defense, and then I crowd him against the wall. “Where’s my little girl?” 

“No english!” he screeches. "Mother!" Tears pour out of his eyes. 

“Where. Is. She?!” Suddenly, the last kidnapper is full of bullets, and my clip is empty. And I’m still clicking the trigger. Holy fuck, I can’t stop. 

“Evelyn!” I shout, my throat burning from the desperation in my voice. I toss the shield to the ground. “Evelyn!” I splash through the blood, listening to the groans of air escaping dead bodies, hoping maybe one of the sounds will be Evelyn. 

I search the empty rooms. There’s a body already in the bathroom shower, a prostitute from the looks of it. Been there a while. God, I hope Evelyn hasn’t seen it. 

And then I come to a kennel in the corner. A mother. Fucking. Kennel. My little girl is a goddamn kennel, her eyes closed and her body unmoving. 

Screaming, I collapse to her side. I check her pulse. Still there. Relatively strong. Her chest rises and falls in slow, wheezy breaths. Thank God. 

I pull her out as gently as I can given how desperately and quickly I want to hold her against me. “Evelyn?” I pull her to my chest to feel her breathe. Her warm breath wafts against my neck. I feel her eyelashes flutter against my cheek. "Baby, you okay?" 

After a quick check to make sure there’s no serious wounds, I come to the conclusion that she’s been drugged. I turn off the signal jammer, put the shoes on the shield so that it looks like he’s the one that’s been rushing around the house with blood on his feet, and then I grab one of the dead fucker’s phones to call Moriarty. 

I don’t put Evelyn down for a second. 

~~

I try to stage the scene to look like Human Shield killed his buddies then himself. Of course, forensics, if the investigation goes that far, will determine that the gaping wound in his throat couldn’t be self-inflicted. I’m not too terribly worried. 

I watch from the woods as police surround the house. They take for-goddamn-ever to get inside and get Evelyn. Once I see her passed off to a first responder, I determine it’s time to head back to Moriarty’s. 

Everyone is gone by the time I get there. No Professor, no police, and definitely no Evelyn. After a long shower and some tea, I drive through the snow to the hospital. I’ve not asked Moriarty anything, and he hasn’t provided any information regarding her condition. My stomach is in knots. She was fine when I had her in my arms. She was breathing, she had a strong pulse. 

What if she was overdosed? 

What if the medical team fucked up? 

What if she got an infection? 

What if I missed something? 

I find Moriarty in the waiting room, his eyes black and hollow. He’s hunched over, elbows on his knees, completely still save for his fingers tapping his knee. I take a seat beside him and wait for him to come back to reality. 

After ten minutes or so, he sighs heavily and leans back in his chair. He cracks his neck. “So, how much do you want?” 

“Thirty thousand.” 

He chuckles at the relatively cheap price. “Am I getting a friend’s discount?” 

“No, you're gonna tell me why you picked her. Why didn’t you just leave her on the docks?” 

He flashes that crooked Moriarty grin. “She was perfect,” he says as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

You can’t interrogate Moriarty. You have to be careful what you ask--there’s a limited number of questions he’ll answer, and he sure as hell won’t identify that limit for you. So I think it through, think what I’m going to ask next. 

“If they can’t reattach her finger--which is a very real possibility given how long it’s been--will you toss her out? Because she’s imperfect?” 

His eyes darken. “Shut your ridiculous mouth, Basher. Her _finger_ doesn’t make her perfect; she just is.” 

Oh. I understand. I lean back, mulling over my theory. 

The Professor is not pleased. He punches at my chest, hard enough that it might actually bruise. “What?” 

“What what, you fucking bastard?!” I shout, earning a couple of disdainful glances from the three other people in the room. “Damn you." I'm chuckling a little, surprised at his expression. He's bothered about what I might think. Poor little Prof. It has been a long thirty-six hours, I'm sure. 

“You’re smirking.” 

“Uh no, I’m not.” I'm trying my damnedest not to grin. 

“Uh yes, you are,” he mimics back. “Whatever you're thinking, _stop._ " 

“I think it was love at first sight, and because you loved her the moment you saw her, you think she’s perfect.” 

“That’s absurd. I love her because she’s perfect.” He isn’t convincing. 

“What made her perfect?” I challenge. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

I’m laughing. “Because it certainly wasn’t the sores all over her skin or the fact that she’d wallowed in her own shit for God knows how long. In fact, she had a fever, proof that something was wrong with her. She wasn’t perfect. Far from it.” I don’t know why I’m goading him, but I am. His pudgy little face is turning red. 

He rears back and slaps me in the face. I can’t help but laugh through the sting. “Damn, almost knocked me outta my seat, there, boss.” 

“I’ll kill you.” 

“Shush shush shush,” I say, still smiling. I grab his weak wrists, keeping his assault from full manifestation. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry, you’re right. She is perfect.” 

“Exactly,” he huffs, jerking his arms back to his side. 

“Even without her finger.” 

He nods, crossing his arms. “Exactly.” 

“She loves you too, you know.” 

James Moriarty huffs at me and turns to stare at the wall. 

~~

Moriarty doesn’t know that I’m at the threshold of Evelyn’s hospital room. It’s a sweet scene, one that, if I didn’t know who he was or what he’s orchestrated, might be moving. 

He taps each of her fingertips while she sleeps, counting them. There’s one less now, but on the tenth count, he taps her nose. Gently. Very gently. The doctors were apprehensive about the amount of muscle relaxers in her system; they flushed most of them out before the failed attempt to reattach her finger, but she was still exhausted and had some trouble breathing. 

I don’t know if she’s been awake. They’ve only just allowed me in the room. 

The Prof taps on. 

“Daddy,” comes the weak groan. 

I can see the change in his demeanor. I imagine he’s smiling. “Yes, princess?” 

“Stop, I’m tryna seep.” 

Jim--The Prof--laughs this soft, sweet laugh, pulling her against him to kiss her again and again and again. “But I’ve missed you so much.” 

She giggles, still half-asleep. 

“Scooch over, silly girl. I want to sleep too.” 

“No, dis my bed.” 

“No sharing?” Jim pouts. 

“Um. . . okay.” Sluggishly, she scoots, barely giving Jim--goddamn it--Moriarty enough room. I think I can hear my heart shattering as she snuggles against his chest. He holds both her hands to his face and kisses them. 

I’m disturbed at what this little scene evokes in me. 

Pride? Protectiveness? 

He is not my friend. She is not my little girl. This is not my troop. Not my family. 

Jesus Christ, I’m glad she’s okay. I’m glad that Jim still loves her even though she’s not symmetrical now. I’m glad that this parody of a family is back together. 

I’m even gladder to be on the plane that gets me the hell away from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's probably a ton of factual errors. Just ignore them. It's fanfiction. It's the pretend world of a pretend world. It's doubly separated from reality.
> 
> I just wish my flow was as natural as other writers. UGH!


	7. Growth, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen knows. Basher worries. Jim shoots at Basher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's a lotta things to tell you.
> 
> 1\. There's a TON of errors in this chapter.  
> 2\. This was written SUPER fast.  
> 3\. I wanted to get at least part of this chapter up BEFORE THE S4 premiere.  
> 4\. I wanted to get #3 done because I just wanted to tell you, dear reader, that whatever happens in Season 4, this story won't be compliant with it. So, sorry about that.  
> 5\. Originally, I had planned to have this story finished before the Season 4 Premiere. This story will end at the point in the show where the video of Jim saying, "Miss me?" plays.  
> 6\. I fucked up in terms of getting shit up. I'm sorry.  
> 7\. I hope you won't give up on this story just because it doesn't make sense canonically anymore.  
> 8\. I am having to split this chapter into two parts because there's no other way for me to get these notes up BEFORE 8:30 p.m. British time.

_July 2012_

_The story of Professor Addison O'Neill, University of Bern's Irish-born associate professor of at the Institute of Mathematical Statistics and Actuarial Science, was mostly untold, with only the Bern local newspapers reporting on the kidnapping and subsequent murders.  
_

_However, as photographs and timelines have come to light, speculation has surfaced that Professor O'Neill is really the exonerated James Moriarty, who also held a PhD in Statistics and Computer Programming. While there are no reports of the presumed-dead Moriarty ever having a child . . ._

I hurl the tablet onto the oak desk, noting the gleam in Magnussen's eyes. My instinct is to leap over the desk that separates us and strangle him before the article can go to print, but he's got two bodyguards behind him now, and without weapons, I don't know that I could take all three of them at once. So, I say nothing. He wants me to show my hand, and I'm not going to. 

He smiles at me, this cat-eating-the-canary smile that fuels the fire burning inside of me. I'll kill him. I will shove a lead pipe into his ear and wait for the pressure to build until his eyes pop out and then I will fucking drill into his brain. 

This long silence stretches between us. I can't stop fidgeting, and the longer the silence grows, the more my anxiety and fury grows. 

Magnussen's office, all black and white smooth surfaces and large windows and digital screens, shouldn't contain an old-fashioned ticking clock, but it does, and the _tick, tick, tick_ makes my skin crawl. Is my little girl okay? Has something happened to her daddy? Who else knows that Moriarty is alive? 

_tick, tick, tick_

That goddamn clock is broken; it has to be. It's ticking too fast to be accounting for seconds. 

_tick, tick, tick_

I bet I could take all three of them. 

My head is pounding. I realize that my teeth are clenched so tightly. I'm gripping the arms of the chair I'm sitting in. Both of my feet are planted firmly on the ground. I'm not relaxed, and Mags can see all of it. That fucking arsehole is probably reading more into the silence than if I was actually speaking. 

"So?" I try to smirk back. 

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. He says something to the guard to his left. I need to learn whatever the hell it is that the Danish speak. He turns back to me. "Would you care for a drink? You seem quite tense, little tiger." 

I blink. I _do not like_ all these non-females calling me "tiger," but this is not the time for gay panic. "No." 

The guard hands Mags a shot of something. I didn't even pay attention to what he poured. 

Mags knows about Evelyn and Jim, and I'm pretty sure my heart is about to burst right out of my chest. 

"Are you sure?" he asks after he takes a pull. "It's quite--" 

"Moriarty is dead, Chuck," I spit. "He shot himself in his goddamn face. That's not something you just get up from and go adopt a kid and teach classes in Switzerland." 

He smiles at the outburst. "Then I suppose you won't mind if I publish this article--" 

"You're the business man. You do whatever the hell you want." 

"I would calm down if I were you, tiger. We're merely having a conversation." 

_No, we're not; you're threatening my --_ My what, exactly? Jim and his weedchild are not _my_ anything. 

"It's not a conversation if you've got two bodyguards _and_ all of my weapons." 

"Which begs the question, why bring knives and guns to a meeting among friends?" 

I think Mags must've been the Serpent in the Garden of Eden. He says these things so sincerely and yet so mockingly, and I almost find myself believing him. 

"We're not friends, boss." 

"Yes, you don't make friends with your employers, do you?" 

"No." 

"Which is why you won't care if I pass on this information to the general public." 

I pop my neck. Fine, he wants me to show my hand, I will. I slam my hands down on the desk, leaning over it and then grabbing Mags' tie to pull his face to mine. His guards move to protect him, but he waves them off with a giggle. "What do you want, you slimey git?" 

"Nothing, nothing, little tiger, burning bright. Let go of me, please." 

"No. You cannot publish that. You can't. I'll kill you if you do." 

"Oh dear, and where would you be without my financial support?" 

"You're not the only one who brokers murders, Chuck." 

"Mycroft Holmes would not be happy if you disposed of me." 

I freeze. I don't wanna say that I'm explicitly afraid of Mycroft Holmes, but if anyone has the power to royally fuck me over, it's Mycroft Holmes. One of the scenarios I revisit from time to time is how to dispose of that bastard. 

I pull him closer. "If you hurt my little girl, if you take her daddy from her, I don't give a shit what happens to me--they will never, ever even find any evidence of your creepy little existence. Do you understand? I will rip the fingernails from you hands and hammer them into your throat. I will strangle you with your own intestines." 

Mags laughs again. "You know, little girls like her, there's a rather large demand for them. On film." His pale blue eyes are frozen on mine. "I'm sure she could make her way without her . . . Daddy." 

And that's it. That pushes me over. 

When the guards pull me off, when I finally come back to myself, Mags has blood pouring from his rapidly purpling nose. One of the guards is jerking scissors from my hands. The scissors are covered in blood, but I don't know whose. I realize that my right eye is quickly swelling shut. The other guard is leaning against the desk, clutching his flank, his crisp white shirt slowly turning red. 

"You stay the fuck away from them," I growl. 

Mags holds his nose up. Even bleeding through his snothole, the bastard looks smug as hell. "I've no desire to harm your little family, Sebastian." 

"Then why the fuck did you bring it up?" I roar, ready to charge again. The uninjured guard's fist to my gut keeps me in place. 

"Oh several reasons," he says as though he didn't just threaten to sell my sweet little Evelyn into a kiddie porn ring, as though I didn't just break his nose. "I needed to update my records, know what your pressure points are," he begins to list them off, "you've gotten very liberal with your business expenditures, and I know that Irene Adler has contacted you about heading up her security team for her upcoming move to Australia." He removes the tissue from his nose, sniffling softly. "Ah, much better. I suppose the glasses will need to be replaced." He nods towards the floor. The injured guard leans over and retrieves the shattered glasses from the carpet. Mags takes them and sets them on his desk. "Make an appointment with Dr. Olin-Kiser, Jacques." With a barely noticeable grimace, Mags resets his nose, the popping and grinding of cartilage against bone making me shudder. "Now, then, sweet little tiger, I do not allow for moonlighting. Anyone you associate with can be traced back to me, and Adler is not something I want on my periphery. May I recommend avoiding whores and brothels as a whole, Sebastian? Desperation is not a good look for you." 

"I'm not desperate," I snap. 

"I find it fascinating that a hunter of your caliber would settle for paying for sexual conquest. Perhaps you don't enjoy hunting women as much as you do animals." 

"I'm not discussing my sex life with you." 

"Good, it's rather boring." 

"My sex life is not boring." 

Mags' eyes runs back and forth at the thin air, as though he is reading something. "Two nights ago, missionary position, failed attempt at dirty talk, the entire encounter took a little over an hour. The next day, very tame exploration into girl-on-girl pornography, all scenes taking place at the beach." 

My face burns. "Oh my God, could you not?" 

"I thought with your strict Catholic observances I might find some religious themes in your sexual preferences. I was wrong. Perhaps your perversions manifest in your kills." 

I never told him I was Catholic. "Stay the fuck away from me, Magnussen." 

"Too late, sweet tiger. If you work for me, you surrender every aspect to me. My trade is in secrets. I know all of yours because you're working for me." 

"So tell me what you want, Mags, this whole bit is ridiculous." 

Both guards roll their eyes. 

Mags sighs heavily. "I'm surprised young Jim hired such a thick skull. As we've discussed, I know what your pressure points are; stop spending _my_ money on superfluous things. Eating at Burger King in Turkey is not a business expense for your assassination in Niger. And you will decline the offer to work with Irene Adler." 

~~

I try not to think about Evelyn and Jim. Since 2009, it's become a lot harder. It's weird, because sometimes, when I think about Evelyn, I think about my sister Carrie and her rugrats. I wonder if maybe I'm really missing out on something important by not seeing them. 

These thoughts could normally be chased away with a few shots of Jameson and a visit to Anisa. After my meeting with Mags, nothing keeps the anxiety and longing--Jesus, that sounds so melodramatic--at bay. 

So, I check on "Dr. O'Neill." For whatever reason, Mags chose not to publish the article. Probably holding onto the information until he _really_ needs me under his thumb. Jim moved from Switzerland as soon as he was cleared by this police. He moved to a small "liberal arts college" in Galveston, Texas in the States. What the fuck a PhD statistician/master coder is going to do at a small liberal arts college, I have no idea. 

Eventually (read: two weeks after the meeting with Mags), the not-knowing gets to be too much. I have to know if my current employer contacted my previous one. I have to know if Jim knows of anyone else who might be aware of his "not-dead" status. 

I have to see Evelyn. I have to see that Magnussen hasn't gotten to her, that she's still just my innocent little girl who has no qualms shaking the hands of an assassin. 

They aren't my family, but I inexplicably feel a little obligated to protect them. 

I steal a phone from some drunk on the tube, and I call the college and enter Dr. O'Neill's extension. (Poor bloke's bill is going to be painful; take note, fellow Londoners, do not pass out on the tube. Someone may use your mobile to place international calls.) 

It's 20:00 in my portion of the world, meaning it was 15:00 in his. He might still be at work, I reason. 

My stomach is in knots as the phone rings once. My leg starts to bounce impatiently. Another ring. My free hand fidgets, popping my knuckles. Another ring. 

"Hi," the familiar cheery voice chirps. 

"Jim, listen--" 

"You've reached the voicemail of Dr. O'Neill. Unfortunately, I'm not in the office, but you can definitely send me an email, which I check every other day over the course of the summer. My summer office hours are Monday and Tuesday, 8:00 a.m. through 12:30 p.m. If I don't see you over the summer, I'll see you when classes resume in September! Feel free to leave a message." _Beep!_

"Fuck," I hiss and hang up. 

~~

_pop! pop!_

Two shots blaze past my left shoulder. 

"What the fuck?!" I shout. 

The lights flicker on, revealing my ex-employer in nothing but his pants, holding a Kahr CW9. "What the hell are you doing?!" 

"What the hell are you doing?!" I shout back. "Holy God, Prof, you're a terrible shot." I move to inspect the bullet holes in the wall, both a good arms length away from me. It makes me feel sick. Jim won't be able to protect Evelyn if push comes to shove. I've gotta get him to a shooting range. I can't imagine that'll be difficult to find in Texas. 

"Well, it was dark. Why the hell are you in my house?" 

"Daddy!" comes a shout from upstairs. "Daddy!" 

"Everything's fine, sweetheart," he answers. "I'll be up in a moment." 

"I wanted to make sure you guys are okay." 

"So you break into my house at 3:00 in the morning?" 

"Why didn't you answer my goddamn email?!" 

He rolls his eyes. "When did you send it?" 

"Yesterday!" 

"I only check my work email every other day in the summer, you maniac!" 

I shake my head at the evidence of his poor aim. "Jim, you've gotta get some classes or something on shooting." 

He hurls the gun at me, knocking me in the chest. The thing's so light, I'm surprised it didn't just flutter to the ground like a feather. "I was a good enough shot to get the permit," he pouts. 

I burst into laughter. "You got a goddamn permit?" 

He glares. 

"Seriously? What the fuck, you used to trade weapons illegally. Now you get fucking permits." 

"Stop swearing! It's not a habit I want Evelyn to pick up." 

I can't help but smile. Jim is a good dad, I think. "Can I go see her?" 

"No!" 

"Why the fuck not?" 

"As a general rule, I don't let those breaking into my house go and visit my daughter!" 

"Jim--" 

"Addison." 

" _Jim_ , come on. I came here because I wanted to make sure she was okay." 

He tilts his head. "Why wouldn't we be?" he asks, his voice lacking any sarcasm. "What do you know?" 

I take a deep breath. "Mags knows." 

Jim's face remains stoic. He nods slowly. 

"He's not going to do anything, at least not right now. He said he just needed to know what my pressure point is. And he didn't want me to work for Adler." 

His lips twitch as he processes this information. 

"The kids that took Evelyn..." he says slowly. "They must've sold the information to someone and Magnussen got his hands on it." 

"Kids?" 

"They were students of mine in Bern. I made a miscalculation in teaching them some code. They got into some banking information that they shouldn't have. It was purely by chance. They figured out who I was and decided to blackmail me." He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "I don't know who they would've passed the information on to, though." 

"But you haven't had any reason to suspect someone else knows?" 

He shakes his head. He's worried. 

"It's probably just Mags, then," I offer. I don't know why, but I have this urge to comfort him. 

"Charles doesn't find information first hand--it's all passed on to him. He had to get it from somewhere." 

"Daddy!" comes the voice from upstairs again. "Daddy!" The pitter-patter of feet coming down the steps makes me smile like an idiot. "Whass goin on?" 

She looks at me, and it takes her a moment but she recognizes me. "Tiger! Papa Tiger!" She doesn't run over to me, though, and I'm ashamed to say that I'm mildly upset about that. 

Jim must see this. "She's going through a shy phase. Likely because of the event and the move. But also because it's common for her age. Evelyn, sweetheart, don't you wanna give Basher a hug?" 

She thinks it over. She comes over to him, bashful, reaching for his hand. "Come wif me?" she asks in a whisper. 

He smiles sweetly at her. "Come on, sweet lady." He lifts her up, balancing her on his hip, and carries her over to me. 

"Hey Evelyn," I say softly as she reaches out for me. She gives me a very short one-armed hug, then buries her head in her Daddy's shoulder, giggling. 

Jim giggles too. "Are you a shy little girl?" he teases. 

"No," she answers, the smile evident in her voice. 

"I think you are." 

"Nooo," she says with more conviction. 

"You ready to go back to bed?" 

"No." 

There's a knock on the door. I freeze and Jim freezes, clutching Evelyn to him tightly. "Here," he says, handing her off to me. It takes some effort to pry her fingers off his shoulders. "Hold her." 

"Um, don't answer the door in your pants," I hiss at him. 

He waves me off and checks the window. He groans. "Oh my God, it's the lesbian Baptists." 

"What?" 

"Ugh, just make them go away. Come on, Evey, let's go night-night." 

"Lesbian Baptists?" 

"Just answer the door," he says, taking the little girl from me and heading back upstairs. 

"You're not my boss anymore." Nonetheless, I answer the door. 

Two women in their mid-thirties stare back at me. "Is everything okay? We heard gunshots." 

"Who are you?" the other one asks. 

"Oh, I'm, er, I'm Addison's friend." 

The two exchange a knowing glance. "Is he all right? Can we do anything?" 

"Don't the two of you have your own children to mind?!" Jim shouts from upstairs. 

"He's--he's just grumpy," I tell them. "Don't--don't take it, you know, personally." 

"Oh, we know. We know. Bless him." 

"I'm Elliott," I say, offering my hand, remembering my assigned name from the Swiss Event. 

"I'm Susan," one of them answers, shaking my hand. "And this is my wife Amber." 

"Oh, I...I didn't know that was, like, a thing in Texas." 

"Oh, we were married in Massachusetts." 

"Oh." I guess that means something? I have no idea. "Well, er, goodnight." 

"Addi," Amber calls over my shoulder, "Addi, are you sure you're all right?" 

"For the love of God, go home!" Jim shouts back. 

Oh my God, why is Jim so rude to these women? They seem so nice. 

Susan shakes her head. "It's the PTSD, isn't it?" she asks me. 

I try not to snort. What the hell are they even talking about? "Yep, that's it exactly." 

"Well, we're glad you're back from overseas." 

Oh my fucking God. 

"Honestly, though, and I'm sorry if this sounds racist, I always expected you to be black." 

_OH MY GOD._

"Yeah, that's, er, that's what my mum said," I joke. "So, um, it's nice to meet you both, so I'm going to bed. Good night." 

I shut the door before the conversation can go any further. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat #7: I hope you won't give up on this story just because it doesn't make sense canonically anymore. 
> 
> Chances are, you're reading AFTER Season 4 premiered, but I got it up BEFORE. (Like for real, it will air in the UK in, like, 38 minutes.)
> 
> So I did my best.
> 
> I feel like it's all a lost cause.


	8. Growth, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much stress about this story. 
> 
> Like, I've been re-reading it, and it's, like, legit kinda boring (and I don't say that in the 'fishing for compliments' kind of way), so if you're still reading, thanks. 'Preciate your perseverance. 
> 
> Anyway, here ya' go.

You know that feeling when you wake up, but you haven’t quite opened your eyes yet, and it registers that something’s not right? Maybe not necessarily dangerous, just something is . . . off.

That’s how I feel right now. I can see the sunlight bursting into the living room through my tightly closed eyelids, and I’m slowly becoming aware of my body. I’m not in danger, so my brain is taking its sweet time to wake up. I don’t know if it’s jet lag or just recovering from the anxiety of the last two days, but I feel hung over. 

I know I’m not, though, because The Professor doesn’t keep anything stronger than cooking sherry in the house. After the women left and Jim and Evelyn were silent upstairs, I could not settle down, so I searched through the kitchen and pantry until Jim, apparently kept awake by my rummaging, texted me to tell me that there was no alcohol in the house. 

_Tap, tap, tap_

Sensation is playing across my hand, vaguely reminding me of the wind. I blink a few times, trying to adjust to the light. A full head of natural hair is bobbing beside me on the floor next to the couch. 

_Tap, tap, tap_

Well, Evelyn’s still alive. No one took her in the middle of the night. 

“What’re you doing, Evelyn?” I croak. 

“Counting.” 

Oh. She’s tapping my fingers. She’s counting them. 

I feel slightly sick. She only has nine fingers. I have ten. Briefly, I consider chopping off one of my own just to make her feel at ease. 

“Why’re you counting them?” 

“Cause I love you.” 

I melt. “Oh. Huh.” 

I wonder if it’s a habit she’s picked up from Jim. I don’t know if it’s an OCD thing or a control thing or just a tick, but Jim likes to count things. He likes to tap things as he passes them, but only when he’s in a controlled environment. Obviously, he can’t just go around touching everything; his prints would be everywhere. 

I think back to him tapping her fingers at the hospital. I think back to her counting at the pool, shoving her fingers in my face. I think back to what Carrie told me about her first child in her last letter to me while I was deployed. _She has ten fingers and ten toes and two eyes and a nose, and while most everyone else on Earth has these things as well, hers are the most perfect, the most miraculous._

I wonder if Jim feels the same, if he’s always felt like that with his daughter. 

_Tap, tap, tap_

“Knock it off.” There’s no real command in my voice. She just leans up to grin mischievously in my face. 

“No!” 

“You like that word, don’tcha?” 

“No.” 

Oh my God, kids are so goddamn annoying. 

“Moran,” Jim’s voice emanates from the kitchen. “Come set the table.” 

I snort. “Um, hell no.” 

He appears in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. “Excuse me?” 

“I came to make sure you hadn’t fucked up again; I didn’t fly twelve hours here to set your table.” 

“Go set the table, now,” he orders, his voice low and soft. He’s trying to be Moriarty again. 

I can almost see the Consulting Criminal in Jim’s face, like he’s been possessed. The pools of depravity that always rest just behind his eyes suddenly spills out to the entirety of his face. A shiver runs down my spine. 

I yawn, just to piss him off. “Evelyn, go set the table,” I say, motioning for her to get away. 

“No,” she says, genuinely disgusted. 

“I didn’t ask Evelyn to do it,” he says through gritted teeth. “I asked you to do it.” 

“And I declined.” I don’t know why I’m pushing, but for some reason, I want to make him angry. I crane my head up to meet his gaze. 

There’s something eerie in his eyes. His face has melted into placidity. It’s the face he used to give me when it was time for a messy ending to a business ending. The thought crosses my mind that maybe he’s got a sniper on standby. 

I force a light-hearted chuckle. I’m not gonna be shot to death on a sofa in Texas unless its in a whorehouse. “All right, all right. I’m up.” 

Breakfast in the O’Neill/Moriarty household is a really domestic ordeal. Jim cuts up her eggies (which are fried, not scrambled) in small bites, and they talk about what they’ll do for the day (clean up, brush teeth, go to the park, et cetera). It’s bizarre. Like, this is the life that the Consulting Criminal, the Professor of the Underground, is living. If it weren’t so fascinating, it would be boring as hell. It reminds me of this documentary I saw on a lioness who kept adopting baby antelopes. 

Jim tells the kid to go brush her teeth, and when she disappears upstairs, he says, “I need you to play babysitter tonight.” 

My immediate instinct isn’t to say no. That fills me with self-loathing. “Um, I was gonna catch a flight back home. Poker tournament at the club,” I lie. 

“Basher. You broke into my house. You have to mind her.” 

“Why? What are you doing?” 

He rolls his eyes. “If you must know, I’m hoping to get laid tonight.” Zero shame, all annoyance that I’m putting up a fight. 

“So? Just bring him here.” 

“No,” he snaps back. “I don’t want Evelyn to think it’s okay to just bring some strange man home.” 

“I mean, she probably will one day.” 

He glares. “She might be a lesbian.” 

“Statistically not.” 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Who usually watches her when you go out on the prowl or whatever?” 

“No one.” 

“You leave her alone?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, no, Basher. I just . . . don’t.” 

Silence. 

“Like, at all?” 

He sighs, exasperated, and gets up to clear the table. 

“Like, since that time you dropped her off at my flat?” 

“Basher!” 

“How can you just not have sex for two years?: 

“Sebastian Moran,” he says softly, “let me be clear; we are not friends. My daughter loves you, and I trust you with her, but do not think for a moment that our relationship allows for ‘bloke talk.’ Do you understand?” 

And now the little shit has succeeded in pissing me off. “I just flew over the Atlantic to make sure you were okay, and you’re gonna tell me we’re just former business associates?” I scoff. Who the hell does he think he’s kidding? 

“You flew here for Evelyn.” 

“Yeah, but Evelyn loves you, so by extension you’re under that umbrella. . . of . . .” Of what? What the hell am I apart of? What is this? 

While I try to unravel the nature of my relationship with the two, he flashes that Moriarty grin. “Sentiment is a dangerous trait in idiots, Bash. I’d mind my steps if I were you.” 

~~

I’m ashamed at how excited I am that I’ll be watching Evelyn again. I have fond memories of playing house while her father was being tortured by government agents. I mean, I have a lot of disgusting memories as well, but I can enjoy being babysitter because this will only be one night. Probably not even the full night. I don’t know a lot about Moriarty’s sexual habits, and I don’t particularly care to (except maybe how he can go two years sans sex), but he doesn’t seem like the sort to stay for a cuddle. 

Currently, her five-inch Batman action figure is marrying her foot-long Barbie doll. She shoves the Batman toy into my hand and then fetches a giant plastic alligator, roaring. “Be scared!” she squeals in delight, shoving the reptile at the super hero. Jim, having just groomed himself for a fuck, comes out of the wc, grey hairs gone, dressed in a sweater vest, khakis, and nerdy, hipster glasses. 

That juvenile impulse to beat him up resurfaces. 

He swoops the little girl up, much to her chagrin. She whines in protest. “Oh, sorry, love, did I interrupt?” 

“Yes!” she answers, giving him a dark look. I’ll be damned if it’s not the same dark look that the Professor gave when he was unhappy. 

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. I just wanted to give you a kiss goodbye.” 

She rolls her eyes--just like him--and sighs heavily. “Okay,” she concedes. Her mood clears up like clouds blown away by a sudden gust of wind; she smiles brightly and wraps her arms tight around his neck before kissing his cheek. “Bye bye!” 

“I love you.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“I love you, Daddy.” 

“Are you going to behave for Tiger?” 

She nods. 

“Promise?” 

She grins mischievously, then shrugs. 

He smirks at me. “You have to be good for him, just like for Ms Susan and Ms Amber, right?” 

She nods again, impatient. “Daddy,” she says, “I’m playing wedding.” 

He kisses her temple, giving her one last squeeze before setting her back down in the floor. “Okay, okay, I’m leaving. I love you, Evelyn.” 

Didn’t he do this already? 

“Be a good girl.” 

“Quit stallin’, Jim,” I bark. “She’s gonna be fine, okay?” 

“Yeah, Jim!” Evelyn shouts back. 

“Hey,” I bop the back of her head, “don’t call your daddy Jim.” 

“Don’t hit my child!” 

“Oh my God, Jim! Go!” I rush him, shoving him towards the door. “All the boys are gonna be taken before you even get out there!” 

“ _Men_ ,” he corrects. 

“Not looking like that, Prof,” I say before forcing him out the door. “Bye.” I slam the door. 

Evelyn stares at the door. I freeze. Her eyes focus on my face. Is she going to start screaming? Oh my God, please, please, child, don’t start screaming. 

“Daddy goed?” 

“Yup.” 

“Where?” 

Well, I have no idea how to answer that. I don’t want her to think her daddy left her to go somewhere fun. What would be boring to a three-year-old? “Um, church.” 

Evelyn frowns. “With Ms Susan and Ms Amber?” 

I blink. “Yes.” 

She collapses to the ground, crying. “I wanna go!” 

“No. No. You don’t want to go to church. It’s really long and boring.” 

She looks up at me, tears flowing freely. I don’t know how she’s even had time to produce that many tears. “Nooooo! I don’ care!” 

“Hey, hey, listen, listen.” She does. Wow, we’ve made progress since she was a year old. “Let’s, er, let’s play church? How’s that?” 

It’s really obvious that Evelyn’s never been in church. I don’t really know what a Baptist service looks like, so we play Mass. The alligator is wearing a black handkerchief and a piece of tinfoil around his neck. There’s not a Bible in the house, so for the scripture reading, Father Alligator reads from _The Cat in the Hat_ , and I try really hard not to be offended when Evelyn follows every rhyme with “Amen.” 

Mass quickly devolves into chaos when one of the Pixar plushies falls onto Father Alligator and Evelyn declares a state of emergency. Apparently, what that entails is a pretend trip to the ice cream shop before heading to the A and E. 

In the dark blue of the Texas evening, still blazing hot, Evelyn drives around the backyard in a green battery-operated child’s Jeep, the Mass attendees falling out of the sides as she speeds around. I chase her around the yard for a long while, and then she. . . just emotionally crashes, I guess. 

It starts when she sees headlights, and she thinks it’s Jim. “Daddy!” she calls. The headlights turn into another driveway. The tears start. 

I realize I probably should’ve been had her in bed about an hour or so ago. Jim had warned me about her routine, how important it was to stick to it. When she’s tired, she gets anxious. And I suppose that makes sense, considering she was abandoned as a baby, her daddy was kidnapped for two months, and then she was kidnapped and mutilated. 

I just wanted some time with her, if I’m completely honest. I don’t know why. She’s not mine. She’s not particularly interesting. She just . . . really is perfect, I guess. I mean, she’s not, she’s whiny and demanding and drives like a maniac, but she’s . . . authentic. No doubletalk. I know where I stand with her because she has no reason to lie to me. It doesn’t matter to her that her daddy has had hundreds of people killed, has tricked thousands out of millions, has had his hands in the slave trade--none of that impacts her love for him and the reverse is true. 

It doesn’t matter that I’ve got scars on my face, that my hands are rough, that I’ve strangled the life out of people at the behest of someone else. I kill for a living. I gamble. I fuck prostitutes. 

To her, we’re protectors. We’re caregivers. She loves us. She loves Jim. 

She calms down a little after a lavender-scented bubble bath, but she refuses to go to bed, and I don’t have the heart to make her. We settle on the sofa, and she climbs in my lap and snuggles against my chest, sniffling quietly. 

“You’re dad’s coming back, I promise,” I tell her, hugging her snug against me. 

She nods. “I wanna watch _Dragons_.” She rubs her eyes, evidence of her sleepiness. 

After I struggle with the remote for a while, she puts it on by herself, then snuggles against me again. My sweet little girl. She’s asleep before the opening credits are over. 

I can’t help but watch her. I watch her breath come in and out, feel it against my neck, and it’s such a calming moment. She’s alive, she’s settled, she’s perfect. She trusts me. 

I’m overwhelmed at the sense of non-sexual intimacy of the moment. The feeling of her tiny body resting against mine, because she trusts me, because she needs me, because I’m a comfort to her, is simultaneously the most empowering and terrifying feeling in the entire world. 

Listen, I’ve played God. I may have been working for Moriarty and Magnussen, but that’s always been my choice. I’ve been the strength, choosing to follow their requests. I’ve decided who lived and who died. I’ve redesigned the human body with bombs and blades. I’ve breathed life back into my soldiers. I’ve been powerful. I’ve been omniscient. 

And none of that compares to this feeling right now. I’m completely subject to her, because I’ll do literally anything for her. And yet, I’m in charge. I physically and authoritatively can determine what happens to her. I’m trapped in this crazy power exchange, except there’s no power. 

I love her. 

I’m simultaneously horrified with myself and at peace with myself. 

I hear Jim’s vehicle pull into the driveway and freeze. 

I need to move her. I can’t be caught snuggling with this weed . . . precious little angel child. I can’t move her. She should be in bed. But she’s so . . . Evelyn right here in my arms. Oh my God, what do I do? 

Keys rattle against the door, and the soft snap tells me that the lock’s been undone. 

I start to slide out from underneath her, but she makes this soft sound, and I can’t. I can’t move her. She’s sleeping. And she’s perfect. 

Fuck. 

The door opens. I shut my eyes and lay my head back, pretending to be asleep. 

Jim’s footsteps sound their way into the living room. I’m holding my breath. He sighs, irritated that the television’s on. I realize Netflix has rolled over into another movie that I don’t recognize. I wasn’t even paying attention. How long have I been sitting here watching a child sleep? How boring is that? 

I feel his eyes bearing down on me. I imagine his arms are crossed. 

“Hey,” he whispers gently. “Evey, baby, let’s go night night?” 

“Sh,” she whispers back, but much, much louder. “Tiger Papa is sleeping.” 

My heart. 

“Come on, let’s let him sleep, okay?” 

I feel him reach down to retrieve her from my chest. It’s all I can do not to grip her tightly, pull her back. 

The telly is turned off, then the lights, and finally I hear Jim kiss Evelyn good-night then close the door to his own room upstairs. 

I open my eyes to the darkness. I feel cold. And maybe a little bit sad.


	9. Proto-Radius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some friend time between Jim and Basher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. Lotsa overused tropes. Mainly, though, this chapter uses the "spooning someone while teaching them to shoot" trope.
> 
> Basher's heterosexuality is just, like, really killing me. I JUST WANT THEM TO HAVE SEX.

_September 2012_

I have a layover in Galveston. Should anyone ever suggest I planned my layover to fall in Galveston, I’ll deny it, but denial doesn’t mean it’s not true. 

Dr O’Neill’s class is letting out when I arrive. He’s chatting with a young female student, who is very clearly in love with him. He’s tapping on his thigh impatiently, trying his hardest not to let Moriarty slip into the interaction. I wait until he sees me and promptly uses my presence as an interruption. “Oh! Elliott!” he says, trying not to sound desperate. “I wasn’t expecting you until after my Physics class.” 

I grin, using the opportunity to slide between him and the student. Without hesitation, I lean over to kiss his cheek. “Got off early; thought I’d come see _you_.” I watch the girl’s face fall with a sadistic sort of pleasure. 

Jim’s face is surprisingly pink when I step back from him. His shoulders are tense. _Haha_ , I think. _So much for being just business associates._

I turn my attention to the girl, looking somewhat predatory. She’s a nerdy little thing, cute in a Molly Ringwald sort of way. Not really my type, but I wouldn’t kick her out of bed if she randomly showed up in my bed. I thrust my hand in her direction. “Elliott O’Neill.” 

Her eyes widen. 

Jim snaps out of his blushy trance. “Elliott, this is one of my students, Sarah--” 

“Rachel,” she corrects. 

For a split second, I think Moriarty is going to surface and claw the little girl’s eyes out. I see the rage flash across his face, and then, like lightning, it’s vanished. “Rachel.” 

“Nice to meet you, Rachel. Listen, you mind if I borrow the professor?” 

She mumbles her consent, then leaves, heartbroken. 

Jim shoves me back into the classsroom, then closes the door behind us. “Fuck! I fucking hate them! All of them! And especially that little twat. She’s a drama major for God’s sake!” he rants. “She’s terrible at math! Terrible, Basher. And I have to teach basic maths to these morons! I only get one advanced class this semester!” 

“Sounds rough,” I say dryly. “I really don’t care.” 

“Why are you here?” 

“Shooting range.” 

“What?” 

“You’re a terrible shot. You need some practice.” 

He glares. “I have a class in three hours.” 

“Give me an hour.” 

He studies me, leaning back against his desk. He tilts his head. “Why are you in the States?” 

“Flying to Canada. Had a layover from Brazil.” 

“You stopped here on purpose.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“Why wouldn’t the layover have been in Atlanta?” 

“Oh my God,” I concede. “Yes, I stopped here on purpose. I just keep thinking some thug’s gonna break into your house, and you’re gonna get yourself killed because you shoot like Ray Charles.” 

His eyes narrow. “Does Magnusson know you’re here?” 

I shrug. “Probably. I don’t know.” 

“Has he said anything about us? And by us, I mean Evelyn and myself; not you and me,” he clarifies. 

I chuckle. “Feeling a little uneasy about _our_ relationship?” I take a step closer. “I thought we were just business associates.” 

I know he’s gonna hit me, but for whatever reason, I really enjoy annoying him. Maybe it’s payback for all his insults when I was working for him. His fist slams into my gut. It’s not too bad. I laugh through the pain. “See, that’s why you’ve gotta improve your aim. You’re not gonna deter anyone with a hit like that.” 

He squints his eyes. “I’ll stab you,” he hisses. 

“C’mon, Jim,” I say solemnly. “I worry. Seriously. If something happens to you, something might happen to Evelyn. Gimme an hour, I’ll give you a crash course in gunmanship.” 

He mulls it over, checking his watch. He sighs. “Fine.” 

~~

Jim is ridiculously flirtatious at the range. I don’t know if it has to do with being around guns or if he’s just purposely annoying all the assumed conservative heterosexual males. Of course, he also flirts with the female off-duty copper behind us in the rental line, so maybe it’s just the smell of gun powder. 

“You’re in a good mood,” I note as we come to our assigned lane. He shrugs it off, staring at the rental weapon. “Excited?” 

He smirks. “Bit.” 

“All right. Let’s see you fire off a shot.” 

He giggles like a boy, then takes the worse stance ever and fires, completely missing the paper target. His shoulders sag a little at the failure. 

“You’re locking your elbows, and you’re holding it too low.” 

“What? That’s what the instructor told me to do.” 

“Instructor?” I cannot believe The Professor went to an instructor to learn how to fucking shoot someone. 

“Shut up.” 

“Locking works for some people, keeps them still, but it doesn’t for you. It hitches your aim to the right.” 

He sighs and assumes the isosceles stance. 

“Hold on,” I tell him. “Let’s try the fighter stance. Your center of gravity is too high for that stance to be effective. You’re trying to balance and aim.” 

After positioning himself based on my instructions, he fires another round. It’s closer this time but only barely nicks the target. He growls. 

“Okay.” I step behind him. “Higher.” I lightly push his elbows upward so that they’re in line with his shoulders. He tenses. “No, just stop, relax. Slight bend in the elbow.” I step closer. I don’t know why. I don’t need to. I think, maybe, I just want him to be the one on guard, to be on the receiving end of unwanted advances. You know, since he’s feeling so flirty. I reach for his wrists, guiding his grip. 

“Is this necessary, Tiger?” he purrs. He leans his body backwards playfully so that his head is resting on my shoulder. He bats his eyes. 

I smirk. “If you think you’re gonna make me uncomfortable, remember you shot at me twice in nothing but your pants.” 

“Ah, homoerotic subtext,” he sighs. “My favorite trope.” 

“Oh,” I snap back, shoving him forward, “I forgot, we’re just business associates.” I give him a scathing look. “No time for bloke talk.” 

“This isn’t bloke talk. I’m making you uncomfortable with my homosexuality,” He says in a high-pitched sing-song voice then winks at me. 

“Oh, we’re past the point that you hitting on me makes me uncomfortable,” I lie. I am a little uncomfortable. But, hey, I made the choice to be this close. I can’t backtrack now. 

He chuckles, righting himself. “That really bothered you, didn’t it, Basher? When I told you we weren't friends?” 

“It was ungrateful, you bastard.” 

“Oh, please tell me what I have to be grateful for,” he challenges. 

“I came to make sure you were okay. Both Evelyn and _you_.” 

“Aw, how sweet,” he cooes, rolling his eyes. “No one asked you to play guardian angel, sweetheart.” 

Now I’m actually a little annoyed. “Would you have preferred that I just let Mags publish his piece about Addison O’Neill’s striking resemblance to James Moriarty?” 

“Keep your voice down,” he says idly, twirling the gun on his finger. 

I rush him, gripping the gun. “Jim, this is not a toy. Don’t do that.” 

He gives me this “come hither” look, his black eyes gazing up at me through his lashes. “Do you worry about me, Sebastian?” he whispers, his voice soft and sensual. "Do you worry something will happen to me? Would you _miss_ me, tiger?" 

No one has ever in my entire life looked at me with that sort of fire in their eyes. The fact that Jim’s faking it makes me feel a tad ill. Discomfort falls on me like fog. I take a step back. He’s won our little game of Gay Chicken. I hold up my hands. “Fine, you win.” 

He cackles. “I always win.” 

~~

We’re at a stoplight, almost to the college, when he says blankly, “Let’s rob a bank.” 

He says it so evenly, so nonchalantly, it’s almost like he’s mentioning the rain clouds gathering on the horizon. I cast a sidelong glance his way. He’s leaning his head against the window, his eyes glazed over. He blinks once, twice, then sits up to look at me, his face taking on that quiet mania that defined Moriarty. 

Wait, is he serious? “What?” 

“Let’s rob a bank,” he repeats, his voice less far away. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I _need_ to rob a bank.” 

“Like, you need money--” 

“FUCK YOU, YOU IDIOT! I don’t need money! I need to go rob a bank!” 

“Ok, but why?” 

“Because there’s not time to kill a man!” 

That’s what I call sound logic. “Do you have time? Are you gonna cancel your class?” 

“No!” He’s practically foaming at the mouth. He checks his watch. “We have an hour and a half. We have a time limit! I love time limits! Let’s go. Quick! Turn left here!” 

My heart is starting to beat faster. Adrenaline is starting to course through my veins. “All right, you’re the boss.” 

~~

I’ve got the bank manager on her hands and knees, while Jim, his face hidden beneath a ski mask, prances about the room, further terrifying the patrons-turned-captives. 

“No one wants to play, no one wants to play,” he sings. “Come on, someone, someone be a hero. I know you want to! How about you?” His attention zooms in on a middle-aged man who’s holding his heart. “Problems?” He feigns sympathy. “ _Heart_ problems?” 

While he taunts the poor fucker on the floor, I hear the imperceptible sound of a gun cock, and instantly, I’m on some retired cowboy who reeks of tobacco, bashing his head against the floor until he’s out cold. His handgun slides across the room, and Jim scrambles for it, cackling like a maniac. I’m trying not to smile. 

“Look what I’ve got,” he screeches. “I’ve actually never fired one of these before.” He fires a few times in the air, screams drowning out the echoes of the blasts. 

“Oh shut it. Like you’ve never heard gunshots before. Now, has anyone called the police?” he asks in a high-pitched voice. 

Those on the floor shake their heads, denying this. 

“Oh dear, come on now, WHAT IS THE FUN IN THAT?” he roars, suddenly livid. “How can I enjoy _this_ if you’re all going to be a bunch of crybabies?!” 

He aims for the bank manager at my feet. “Come on, no one wants to be a hero? No one? Isn’t this the home of the brave? WHY ARE YOU ALL JUST SITTING THERE LIKE A BUNCH OF DUMMIES?” He grows more and more impatient as he shouts until finally one of the captives lunges for him, knocking him over. The gun goes off, then slides beneath the teller’s counter. 

“Oy! Careful!” I shout, aiming the stolen rifle at the attacker. She stops dead in her tracks, hands above her head. 

Back on his feet, Jim is cackling. “Finally! Someone has the balls to put up a fight!” He pulls his attacker close to him, tugging his mask down for a split second to kiss her cheek. “Oh, thank you, my dear.” Then he shoves her back to the floor. He turns to a little boy who is cowering in his grandfather’s arms. “By the way, you should never hit a girl. Or shove. Bad manners. Very naughty. Tell Granpa there to give me his wallet.” 

Faint wails of klaxons sound in the distance. 

“Wrap it up, boss,” I tell him. “We gotta go.” 

Pocketing the old man’s wallet, Jim chirps, “Quickly, everyone scooch in.” No one obeys, frozen in terror. He turns to me, his shoulders sagging dramatically. “No one’s playing with me, Colonel,” he whines. 

“Everyone move!” I fire the rifle into the crowd, and they move in closer to one another, covering their ears. 

“Thank you, dear,” Jim says. “Time for a selfie!” He holds his phone above his head and snaps a quick photo of himself and the crowd behind him. “Oh no, Hero Girl--excuse me, Woman, looks like you had your eyes closed. One more. Everyone say ‘bank robbery!’” 

Silence. 

Fuming, he orders at the top of his lungs, “SAY ‘BANK ROBBERY’!” 

A rather lackluster “bank robbery” echoes his demand. The wailing gets louder. “Come on, boss!” 

“Right, right, coming, coming,” he sings. “You’ve been great, all of you. Really. Bless you. And see, no one had to die? Except maybe that guy. He looks like he's bleeding pretty badly. Oh well. You can't win 'em all, can you?” 

I toss a few bags of cash his way, and together we run out the back door to the stolen vehicle. We drive away, the money tucked away in the trunk so that when the ink explodes, it won’t affect us. 

Once we’re tucked away in the cover of the Galveston Island State Park, we torch the stolen car, the masks, and the money. Jim beams at the wild flames. 

We don’t have much time, though. We dash back to my rental car, which we parked about a half mile from the bridge leading to the island, and speed away. 

Jim’s panting becomes laughter. “I cannot tell you how much I’ve missed this,” he says when he can manage it. 

“What’s that exactly?” 

“Terrifying people. Creating chaos. Running from the cops.” 

“Sounds all a bit juvenile for you, considering the level you operated at.” 

“I enjoy the chase. Even when I was at the top of the foodchain, I was still playing at outsmarting the Ice Man. For a long time, I didn’t have the freedom to get my hands dirty. Now I do.” 

I smile at him. “So, you feel a little better?” 

“I no longer feel like I’m going to murder _every single one_ of my students.” 

“Well, that’s a plus.” 

“Debatable. They really are a thick lot. Tragedy to keep it in the gene pool.” 

“So, why did you give this up?” 

His smile fades. He licks his lips. “I didn’t want to. I just had to get rid of Sherlock.” 

“But why? I thought you liked the cat-and-mouse game you two played.” 

“I did. But I realized, when I let Mycroft catch me that it wasn’t . . . healthy. Not anymore.” He seems to be thinking over his words before he lets them out of his mouth. “I was willing to sacrifice being with Evelyn because I couldn’t control my obsession. The only way to be rid of my obsession was to be rid of Sherlock, and the only way to get rid of Sherlock was to make him think I’d offed myself. Which gave me the excellent opportunity of escaping to start a whole new life.” 

I let myself process this. Like I said before, you only get a few questions with Moriarty before he shuts you down. “But why did you let Holmes collar you?” 

“I needed to know more about Sherlock. I wanted to know every single _goddamned_ detail about him. And the Ice Man would give me anything I wanted as long as I sold out the terrorist cells across Europe.” 

“What did you learn?” What could be worth what he went through? 

His grin reemerges. “Sherlock Holmes has a very dysfunctional family. I intend to take full advantage.” 

“You could always just make a comeback.” 

“I will. Later. I miss what I had, but I don’t miss having to schedule my criminal life around Evelyn’s playgroups and doctor’s appointments.” 

“Just have Amber and Susan watch her, then go out and raise hell.” 

Disgust paints his face. “Absolutely not.” 

“What? Why do you hate them?” 

“Because they keep inviting Evelyn to their church events.” 

“So?” 

“So, I don’t want my daughter believing that religious bullshit.” He gives me a sarcastic grin. “No offense.” 

“It wouldn’t kill you to have her in church.” 

“Oh my God,” he sighs, “and I say that ironically. I’m not putting her in church to be brainwashed into believing that there’s inherent ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ There’s no one in the sky who determines morality; it’s practically child abuse to tell your child that there is.” 

“But you want her to behave, right? And be good?” 

He rolls his eyes. 

“I’m just saying church might help with that.” We arrive at the parking lot of the college. His next class starts in ten minutes. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you saying she’s _not_ good?” 

“No, I’m saying that, I don’t know, I just don’t want you to be held accountable for not having her in church.” 

He chokes on a laugh. "Accountable? To who?" 

"The Lord?" 

“Of all my supposed sins, Bash, I doubt not having my child in church will be what damns me to Hell.” 

“Love covers a multitude of sins. Evey loves you, and you love her.” 

“ _Please_ shut up, my poor deluded Catholic sniper WHO MURDERS PEOPLE FOR A LIVING.” 

I glare at him. “She wants to go.” 

He remains silent. We can still hear the klaxons wailing in the distance. “She’s a child,” he says after a long moment. “She doesn’t differentiate fiction from reality well. I don’t want to confuse her. Life’s easier to digest when you realize it’s random and chaotic. You'd probably be a much healthier, happier human being if you accepted that, rather than searching for meaning in a meaningless world. I don't want her to live her life in denial, searching for something she'll never find.” He tilts his head back and forth, studying me. “You worry quite a bit about her, don’t you?” 

“I worry about both of you.” 

“Is that why you get offended when I call you a business associate?” he sneers. “Is that why you think we’re ‘friends’?” 

God, he’s such a fucking arsehole. “You called _me_ when she went missing. You trusted _me_ to watch her when you got yourself abducted. You came to see _me_ before you left London for good. You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s counted on me for basically every important thing in his life for the last three years.” 

His eyebrows are raised high. A bell rings somewhere, indicating that it’s 3:00 p.m. 

“Go on, then,” I say, reaching over him to open his door. “Go teach.” 

He doesn’t leave. He sits there studying me. With what appears to be some effort, he places his hand on my shoulder. “If I had friends, you’d be my favorite.” 

Well. That’s . . . sweet? Weird? “Thanks, boss.” 

He pats my shoulder. He gets out of the car and starts to walk to his class. But he stops, saunters over to the driver’s side and says, “Stay for tea tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe please leave comments? Please? I'm desperate for feedback.


	10. Auxiliary Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim yells at the neighbors, and Evelyn gets baptized.

_November 2012_

I get this email before one of my sessions with Anisa. 

_14.11.12_  
_03:26 UTC_  
_Deer PP Bashur_  
_dinasors ar eckstinct. pleas come vizid us.  
_ _luve evelyn_

“What are you grinning about?” Anisa asks when she returns from “freshening up.” 

“Nothing.” 

“Saw your flight confirmation on your dresser. Why do you have a layover in Texas on a flight from Australia?” 

I shrug. “Just. . . bad choices?” 

She raises an eyebrow. “You got another girl in Texas?” 

“Sort of.” 

She growls. “Ooh, I’m a little jealous.” 

“Ah, don’t worry, Ani,” I tell her, pulling her into my lap. “You’re the only callgirl for me.” 

“Damn straight I am,” she answers, kissing me. 

The thing is though, I'm spending less and less time with Anisa, and I’m making more and more trips to Texas, even when it’s not convenient. I start leaving some things there. Because the guestroom is officially Evelyn’s playroom, I’m not allowed to leave guns or rifles in there, but Jim’s cleaned out the top drawer of her dressing-up chest for me to keep some things, like pants and socks. I keep a toothbrush and a razor behind the mirror in the wc. 

I sleep on the sofa. Sometimes, on weekends, we’ll have “sleepovers” in which I set up a tent in the living room for the two of them to sleep in while a series of Disney movies play in the background. I sleep on the sofa close by. I know I should be embarrassed about it, even ashamed, but it’s nice. 

_January 2013_

“Papa Tiger, papa, papa!” Evelyn screeches when she sees me at the airport. I kneel down to catch her when she lunges at me, and she hugs me tight, kissing my cheek repeatedly. God, she’s grown so much in just three weeks. “Papa Tiger! I got you a surprise!” 

“Really? What is it?” 

“Can’t tell you! It’s a surprise!” 

Jim is smiling at his little girl, that real legitimate smile that he has only for her, and I can’t stop this weird sort of melting feeling in my gut. He loves her so much. The unease I initially felt about his authentic parental love for Evelyn has almost completely gone, and now I just find it . . . sweet. 

I actually really want to hug him. I’m glad to see him. I’m glad to see him with Evelyn. I’m glad to see both of them. 

“What’s the surprise?” I ask him. 

“There’s a bed in the playroom,” he says, as though it’s not exciting as Evelyn is making it out to be. 

Evelyn reaches for him, incensed. “No, daddy! No! It’s a surprise!” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I kiss her cheek, then set her down. “I’ll be surprised when I get there, I promise.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yes, I’ve already forgotten it, rugrat.” 

“I’m notta rat,” she laughs. 

After supper, as Evelyn is working on one of these preschool workbooks that’s supposed to make her smarter or something, I ask Jim about the bed. 

“Your giant bulk was making the couch cushions sink. I thought if you were going to be staying here, you might as well have your own furniture to wreck.” 

I smirk. “You like having me here,” I tease. 

“I tolerate having you here.” 

“Tolerance is letting me sleep on the sofa. Buying a bed is a completely different story.” 

“I’ll take it back if you don’t dial the arrogance down a notch. Evelyn, sweetheart, you’ve got your ‘q’ backwards again.” 

“No, daddy that’s a ‘p.’” 

“There’s no ‘p’ in ‘quick’.” He turns back to me. “I just hope the pink and the unicorns in the playroom won’t tarnish your fragile masculinity.” 

“There’s enough Batman and Toy Story that I think I’ll be okay.” There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn slowly. Out the kitchen window, I see Amber and Susan staring back at me out of their own kitchen window. They’re smiling and waving. “You’ve the friendliest neighbors.” 

Jim grits his teeth, swearing under his breath. Evelyn gasps at the word, then laughs as Jim orders her to never repeat that word. He gets to his feet and storms from the living room into the kitchen. “Goddamned Baptist lesbians!” 

I go after him, grabbing his elbow. “Jim, don’t make a scene.” He starts to flash the vee sign, but I catch him in time. “I thought you were aiming for _inconspicuous_.” 

“They are always staring, waiting to see if ‘Elliott’ is here!” 

“Oh?” I could go for a three way. 

Jim glowers. “Don’t flatter yourself, idiot. They’re firm believers in a child having two parents. So they're always worried that Evey is being neglected by her 'Papa'.” 

I wave back to them, smiling. “You don’t like them because you think they think you’re not a good parent,” I laugh. 

“I’m a great father,” he snarls. “Just because I don’t drag my child to a cult meeting at the crack of dawn every Sunday morning like a superstitious neanderthal!” 

I cover his mouth. “They can’t hear you, Jim. Calm down. You’ll frighten Evelyn.” 

“I’m not frightened,” she shouts from the living room. 

Jim jerks away from me. “I destroyed them in the bake sale, and now they just can’t leave me alone.” 

I can’t not laugh at that. “What?” 

“Their preschool had a bake sale the same week as Evelyn’s. We had competing bake sales.” 

“Bake sales aren’t competitive.” 

His eyes narrow. “They tried to sell granola biscuits, Basher. Granola. And when their little hellspawn come over here, they bring their own _quinoa_. They won’t eat the apples I have--which are straight from the farm because Evelyn and I pick them from the orchard--because the farmer who owns the orchard also has stock in an “inorganic” pesticide, whatever the hell that means. Oh, and after your surprise visit where I shot you--” 

“You didn’t shoot me, okay? You were way off.” 

“Fine, when I shot _at_ you, they came over to share some gun control literature with me. They wanted to make sure I was aware of the dangers of having a child and a gun in the same house.” 

“Jim, they’re just trying to be good neighbors.” 

“They think that I’m a bad father!” He stalks over to the window, throws it open and shouts, “And I’m not! I’m a great father!” 

Evelyn is suddenly under foot. “I wanna yell out the window! Papa Tiger, pick me up!” 

“No, no, we’re not yelling out the window. None of us,” I shut the window, “are yelling out the window anymore.” I wave to the neighbors again, then close the curtains. “Sweetheart, go finish your worksheet.” 

“I’m done!” 

“You’re _finished_ ,” Jim corrects her. “Meats and cakes are done. People are finished.” 

“I wanna be a cake!” 

“Evey, darling, no. We are not cakes. We are people.” 

After Jim’s read Evelyn a bedtime child’s science book, because fairytales are for Sundays, much like sugary cereals, I tell Jim, “I know Susan and Amber bug you about the whole religious bit, but we should get her baptized. It’s important to me that I get my little girl in church.” 

“She’s not yours,” he says, not quite convincing. “And she’s certainly not getting dunked for Christ or whatever.” 

_February 2013_

It took a long time to find a parish that I approved of that would be willing to baptize a four-year-old child with two fathers (one a staunch atheist and one a dishonorably discharged Colonel), but I found one about three hours away. It was Eastern Orhodox, not Roman Catholic, but when I explain our situation, they were (mostly) understanding. 

“Evelyn, you can’t wear a bathing suit.” She’s wandered into the bathroom while I’m shaving, clutching a _The Little Mermaid_ beach towel and wearing a bright pink bathing suit. 

“But I’m going swimming!” 

“No, you’re getting baptized.” 

“In the water!” 

“Yes, but you don’t wear a bathing suit. You wear a dress.” 

“Um no. I don’ wanna go swimmin’ in my dress.” 

“You’re not going swimming. Jim, please, where’s her dress?” 

The bastard is still on the couch, in his pants, reading the news. He’s not happy about the baptism, and he’s doing very little to hide it. 

“I don’t know, Basher, you’ll have to pick one out.” 

I can hear the smirk in his voice. “You didn’t have one ready?!” 

“No.” 

“That’s fine, it’s not like I’ve been on a twenty-hour nonstop flight after a three day stake-out!” I shout back down the stairs. “For God’s sake, put some trousers on!” 

“I will before we leave.” 

“Evey, please, please go put on a dress.” 

“I don’t like wearing dresses.” 

“Baby, please, just do this for me. Jim! For the actual love of God, get her in a dress!” 

She runs away from me, screaming “no.” 

~~

At the church, I get choked up at the sight of my little girl in her lacy white dress. Her hair is chaotic and perfect as ever, with a white bow clipped to the side. She’s insisted on carrying her Batman purse, and given how absolutely precious she looks, I couldn’t tell her no. 

Jim grumbles the entire time. When the priest makes a comment about God providing love even to a family that is an abomination, I have to grab Jim’s shoulder to keep him from attacking. Try as he might, he won’t be able to ruin this day. 

When Evelyn is submerged, though, her pink bathing suit shows through the wet white dress. “I wore my bathing suit!” she tells the priest, then gives me a devious grin. 

My grip on Jim’s shoulder tightens. “Why did you let her wear her bathing suit?” I hiss. 

“Why are you making her participate in superstitious nonsensical rituals?” he hisses back.


	11. Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn goes to a sleepover. Jim freaks out.
> 
> Just a reminder: Jim and Basher aren't good people; just good dads. Like, they've killed people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck the canon, amiright?

_May 2013_

“No. Absolutely not. Four is too young for a sleepover.” Jim glares at Susan, who is still extending the invitation in her hand. 

“We’ll be right next door, Addison,” she reasons. “I think it would be a great time for you and Elliott to just have some alone time, and Evelyn can get to know some of the kids that will be in her grade next year.” 

Jim purses his lips. “Actually, _Elliott_ is going to be leaving that night.” 

Susan and Amber are now glaring at me. I get the sneaking suspicion that they think “Elliott” is having an affair . . . which I guess isn’t wrong because “Elliott” sleeps with a callgirl in Greenwich. I start to contradict them, to set them straight, but Jim interrupts me, almost frantic in his irritation. “Elliott has to _work_ , Susan. He’s gotta family to provide for.” 

Susan and Amber turn their gaze to Jim, offering sad, knowing smiles. 

And I know this is really stupid, but I don’t like being the bad guy in this charade. Elliott is a good husband (in a state that doesn’t recognize same sex marriages, can he really be called that?), and a great dad. Probably. I don’t know. I don’t know what Jim’s told them about Elliott. Hopefully not that Elliott kills people professionally because he’s really good at it. Well, Elliott’s probably not very good at it. But I am. 

“I have a job,” I say stupidly. 

“Mhm,” Amber says dubiously. “Anyway, just think about it. We’d love to have Evelyn over for Jaedyn’s birthday sleepover.” 

Jim glares at the invitation. I take it with a “thank you” and drag Jim back into the house. “I already threw away this damned thing four times. They’ve been trying to get an RSVP for a month!” 

“What have you told them about Elliott? Why do they think you PTSD?” 

He smirks, that vivacious flirtation suddenly flipping on. “Why? Are you worried Elliott’s reputation might be in tatters?” 

“Yeah, our neighbors seem to think I’m a slag.” 

“You are a bit.” 

“Wait, I am or Elliott is?” 

“Christ, Basher, I don’t know what Elliott gets up to when he’s gone. I barely know who he is. He was supposed to be black and working in marketing until you showed up!” 

“So you just had a fictional partner this whole time?” 

“Inventing people is one of my many talents.” He winks at me. “And Addison was supposed to be the long-suffering husband. . . he still is, but for fuck’s sake, it’s hard to play that role with those two always nosing about! They held us hostage while we were getting the rubbish bins in! Who does that?! I’d pay you to kill them, you know.” 

“Nope. Evey loves them. I can’t do anything that would hurt that little girl.” 

“You’ve gone soft.” 

I shrug my shoulders. I probably have. I have actually made contact with Carrie, asked her about her kiddies and her husband and so on. I hold up the invitation. “You know, I think this would be a good thing.” 

“Oh, do you?” Jim asks sardonically. 

I toss it at him. “Don’t be an arse. She’s never been without you willingly. You were either gone from her because you were kidnapped or she was gone from you because she was kidnapped. Don’t you think it might be a positive thing for her to be away from you because it’ll be fun and she wants to be?” 

I can’t describe the look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s furious or heartbroken or still just hyped up from the confrontation he wanted to start with his neighbors in the street. His eyes are wide and he’s gone a little pale. “My little angel doesn’t want to be away from me,” he says softly. 

I can’t stop laughing. “Oh. Tsk, Jim. Jimmy. James--” 

“Ugh, no. Don’t call me that ever.” 

“Boss, Prof,” I reach out to embrace him, still laughing. “My poor dear whatever-you-are.” He is dead stiff against me, growling at the touch. “You know there’s gonna be a day when you won’t be the most important man in her life. She’ll have friends, she’ll have boyfriends, or maybe girlfriends or maybe both. And that’s healthy and good, yeah? It’s part of being a good--” 

“I swear to your pretend God, if you finish that sentence with ‘good parent’ I will poison you in your sleep and tell Evelyn you ran off to the circus.” Jim jerks away from me. “I’m a great parent!” He sulks off into the kitchen. “And I say that four is too young for a sleepover. Especially one with girls _and_ boys.” 

“Oh my God, Jim, it's not like she’ll come back here pregnant.” 

“Anatomical differences are not something that I’m looking forward to discussing. And it’s certainly not something I want her to uncover at a sleepover.” 

“For someone who more or less abandoned his rugrat when she was two, you are the most over-protective father.” 

He pulls a knife out of the knifeblock, eyes blazing. “You are just as annoying as the lesbians! I’m a GREAT! FATHER!” 

~~

It was a difficult win, but with some bribery, I talk Jim into letting Evelyn go to Jaedyn’s sleepover. I shell out a small fortune to get him a private spa night the same night as the sleepover. So, when I get a call saying that no refund will be available even though the attendee left early, I think my fantasies of killing Jim are justified. God, why can’t he just be still? The man used to love spa nights. 

Mags’ new assistant Janine answers the phone. She’s in charge of my schedule now because Mags doesn’t trust me to keep up with his schedule. (Which, after a brief fuck-up in Monte Carlo, I can’t blame him. Whores and whiskey are always the cause of my troubles.) 

“You’d better be calling from the airport,” she says. Janine has a little crush on me, and she’s not so bad herself. I like talking to her. I like hearing the teasing smile in her voice. 

“I’m not. I’ve got some loose ends to wrap up.” 

“You know Ani doesn’t do refunds.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“And I’m not purchasing another ticket.” 

“C’mon Janine, it’s not like it’s not in the budget.” 

“Oh but it is. The second quarter budget specifically has a line item that says ‘Moran’s Cock-Uppery Fund’. You’ve expended it, unfortunately.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re lying.” 

She laughs. “What am I going to tell Magnussen? He expects you in the country.” 

“Hey, I’m not scheduled to do anything for him for another week.” She makes a chiding sound like a mother’s disapproving hum. “Don’t patronize me.” 

“I’ll see what I can do about American Airlines. You’re on your own with Anisa,” she says. “And you have to be back in the country by Thursday. That’s my final offer.” 

“You’re the best Janine. Big kiss.” 

“Ah, ah, ah, Tiger, don’t make me take you to HR.” 

I hang up and try for the Professor. He doesn’t answer, of course, because he’s probably off being a maniac. Regardless, I drive back to the suburbs, the entire world turning purple around me as the sun tries in vain to set. 

I’m apprehensive, if I’m honest, that Jim is going to take matters into his own hands and murder Susan and Amber and free all the other children. . . or maybe “return” them to a zoo. Not our daughter, obviously. Why is Jim such terrible neighbor? He normally loves attention, but two women raise children beside him and suddenly his fatherhood is threatened? 

Poor Jim. I’m starting to think the little flirt is insecure. Maybe that’s why he gets on so well with Evelyn--he feels secure in his role as her father. 

Or maybe Jim’s just fickle. Actually, that answer seems infinitely more likely. 

The house is dark and locked just the way I’d left it when I’d sent Jim off to the spa. Jim’s automobile is in the driveway, though. I knock a few times. No answer. I ring his mobile. No answer. 

A ping from my phone tells me I have a voicemail from Anisa. My stomach flutters for a brief second, but I tell myself I can check it later. Right now, I have to find my squirrelly little mess of a whatever-he-is-to-me. 

I crane my head to scan Susan and Amber’s yard. No sign of Jim. Just the lights from the kitchen reflecting in the dew starting to settle on the grass. The bushes were too sparse for him to adequately hide. I don’t think the fucker could get on the roof. Sometimes, he’s graceful as a cat and other times, the bastard can’t make headway against the constant onslaught of gravity. 

Oh. Of course. The tree house. James. Goddamn. Overprotective. Moriarty. 

I sneak into Susan and Amber's yard and up into the treehouse. Jim is sitting at the window, wrapped up in a sleeping bag and eating crisps. He’s watching the sleepover display that’s being showcased via the living room window. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. When I’m settled beside him, he offers me the bag of crisps, not saying a word. 

“This is really creepy, boss.” 

“It’s creepy for you to be here, not me. I’m the father. You’re just some guy who sleeps at the house sometimes.” 

“You’re spying on little kids.” 

“I’m spying on my neighbors who have my daughter.” 

I sigh. Susan and Amber are sitting in a circle with the kids in the center of the living room, leading them in some kind of clapping game. There’s probably four or five kids there, plus their own three rugrats. Evelyn’s sitting with her back to the window, so I can’t tell if she’s enjoying herself, but she’s definitely playing along. 

“It’s twenty minutes past her bedtime,” Jim says in a low voice. He sounds the way he did when I picked him up in High Weald. Hollow, empty. 

I clap my hand over his shoulder. “Hey, Jim, she’s gonna be fine, all right?” 

He flinches, as if he was completely unaware of my presence until that point. He turns to me, the light of the living room catching in his eyes. He blinks. He rolls his shoulders and hunkers down into his sleeping bag. “Her therapist says it’s best for her to stay on a routine.” 

“Therapist?” I’m a little offended I didn’t know my little girl was seeing a therapist. 

“She worries, sometimes. She worries that I won’t come back. Not always, of course, but sometimes.” I catch sight of a single tear running down his face. My heart races. I’ve never seen Moriarty cry. My grip on his shoulder tightens. I scoot a little closer. My neck is hot and prickly, a symptom of my discomfort. I’m not sure what’s happening to me. “I worried a lot about what happened to her before I found her. I didn’t worry enough about would happen to her afterwards.” 

“Jim, she has a great life. She loves you. You’re a great dad.” 

He whips his face around to glare at me, this death glare so fill with fury, I could practically smell the heat of hell radiating off of him. “IF I WAS A GREAT FATHER I WOULDN’T HAVE LEFT HER FOR TWO MONTHS, DOOFUS!” 

Grabbing the back of his shirt, I drag him below the window ledge so that no one can see us. “Jesus Christ! Idiot! You don’t shout shit while you’re on a stake-out!” I hiss. We lay on the uneven wood floor of the treehouse for a long moment. 

“When she gets out of her routine, she gets a little stressed, and when she gets a little stressed, she starts to worry,” he tells me, as though I haven't just slammed both of us down onto the hardwood floor of the treehouse. “It snowballs from there. My poor little girl has anxiety at four because her daddy fucked up! Fuck Sherlock Holmes!” 

“Well, he’s dead, boss,” I whisper. “He’s dead. You won. Evey won. She’s got you all to herself. All your crazy, obsessive energy is directed towards her.” I smile at him, but I doubt he can see. 

“I love her, you know.” 

“I know you do.” 

“I didn’t think that love was legitimate. I thought it was a made-up notion, designed to make normal people feel a little less terrified about the randomness of the universe. But I think that I love her. Really love her.” 

“I’d say so. You shot yourself in the mouth for her.” 

“Basher?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Love is absolutely paralyzing.” 

“What? What do you mean?” 

“I worry about Evelyn all the time. All of the time. When I take her for check-ups, when I drop her off at daycare, when I put her to bed at night, when I leave her with you---” 

I cut him off. “Stop, stop, stop. Ok, listen, I don’t know, like, a ton about psychology and shit, but I know that when my guys got put in bad situations, situations where they almost died and shit like that, they would worry. And not just in the moment. I mean, they would worry for a long time afterwards too. And not always about themselves. When I was a captain, I had this one lieutenant, and one night we were ambushed. No big deal, of course, we took out the fuckers responsible, but that lieutenant was terrified to go to sleep after that. He was afraid something would happen to his kid or his mum if he did.” 

“I don’t have PTSD,” Jim growled. 

“All I’m saying is this: trauma is intrusive. Not just in the moment. It, like, hangs over you sometimes, poking at you at random times. You got tortured. Evey got taken from you. It’s not something you just walk away from and forget about, you know? But look,” I nudge his knee, sitting up. “She looks like she’s having a good time, yeah?” 

Jim sits up to look out the window. Evelyn is clapping and laughing as Susan dances like a chicken in the middle of the circle. He growls. “Stop stealing my child’s affections!” he yells at her. 

“And it’s probably okay that you’re jealous that Evelyn likes other people too.” 

He slaps my face half-heartedly. He mimes holding a rifle, aiming the imaginary weapon. “I could get rid of her right now and never deal with her church invites again.” 

I save my breath regarding the church invite, but not regarding his aim. “Not like that you won’t. You’re just going to hit that one kid’s soft toy.” 

“No, I can see her through the scope!” 

I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s not where a scope would be, buddy.” 

“Don’t patronize me. We’re not ‘buddies’.” 

“I’m your favorite buddy.” I crawl behind him. “You have to let your cheek rest on the stock. Keep your elbows down. . .” 

It’s probably a terrible idea to teach Moriarty how to handle a rifle, even an imaginary one, especially when I’ll likely to be leaving him in a few hours. But it’s nice to see him being Moriarty again. He starts giggling and cursing and just generally being obscene about the neighbors he hates. 

“. . . And then poor Amber, sweet Amber who MAKES ME ABSOLUTELY BANANAS! Two shots. One in each eye. Because I hate those fuckin’ sympathetic eyes she gives me! I’m not wilting like a fucking flower!” 

“Jim, if you ever kill Amber or Susan, I’m telling Evey.” 

“What?” 

“Seriously. Don’t kill them.” 

He rolls his eyes and sings, “You’ve gotten sooooo soft, Tiger. Maybe I should call you Tigger.” 

“Soft, my arse. I killed ten people for you in Switzerland less than a year ago.” 

“Anyone can kill a stranger, Bash,” he flashes that psychotic grin. 

I think back to the little boy from Evelyn’s play group that Jim had taken while he was flirting with Sherlock Holmes. I’d held a gun to that kid’s head a few years ago. Moriarty’s victims are usually random, because the universe is random. There’s no rhyme or reason to how he plays and yet it’s all so neatly orchestrated, and so I can’t help but wonder if there was a reason for that one kid’s abduction and almost-murder. I ask. 

“Jacob,” he says thoughtfully. “He took a soft toy from her at playgroup. Because his daddy was there, and because he wasn’t technically in her playgroup, the teacher didn’t correct him. So, I thought I’d teach him a lesson. Or, you know, just be rid of him.” 

“So, did he learn?” 

“Probably not. But his flat complex was rather mysteriously burnt to the ground shortly thereafter.” He grins at me. “Poor mummy and daddy didn’t survive. He’s been placed in a therapeutic facility for boys who set fires.” 

I snort. I should feel bad for the kiddo, but I don’t. Don’t fuck with our daughter. There’s still no guarantee that that will keep you safe, but it certainly improves your chances. “Jim, you can’t just kill people because you don’t like their kids.” 

“We both know that’s not true,” he chuckles back. “That’s not the first round of parents or kids I’ve disposed of because they were annoying.” 

“Well, you can’t do that now.” 

“I know I can’t do that _now_.” 

“Just reminding you.” 

“Keep in mind that we did rob a bank together, Tiger.” The light of his phone illuminates his face. I can’t help but think he’s blushing a little. “It’s almost 11:00. They’ve got to get those kids to bed soon. If they’ve any sanity in their pitiful little heads, they know they can’t keep the kids up much longer.” 

“Yeah, Evey’s yawned a few times that I’ve seen.” 

“She’s getting a little fussy. She hit that ginger lad when Amber wasn’t looking.” 

“So, are we okay with that?” 

“What?” 

“Her hitting people?” 

“Nah. She has her daddies to do that at this point. Though, before she goes to kindergarten, I want you to teach her how to fight.” 

I frown. “Maybe when she’s ten. It might look a little suspicious if she’s kicking other people in the throat at five.” The kids, all yawning and rubbing their eyes, are being herded out of the living room. Susan closes the blinds, robbing Jim of his only connection to his daughter. I feel him tense. “Hey,” I say softly, wrapping my arm around his shoulder, “hey, she’s fine. They’re probably getting ready for bed.” 

“What if they’ve got some kiddie porn ring thing happening?” 

“They don’t, Jim.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because if they did, you would know about it.” 

He scowls, huffing impatiently. 

I challenge his annoyance. “Tell me you haven’t broken into their house and surveyed the entire area from basement to rooftop.” He laughs. “Seriously, tell me you haven’t routinely checked their emails and text messages. Tell me that you, James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, Professor of the Underground, haven’t checked their banking statements, their porn habits, their voting records.” 

He looks down, feigning bashfulness. “Pillow talk in the treehouse? Flatterer.” The lights behind the blinds go out. Jim growls out, “That was not enough time for the children to properly brush their teeth.” 

The light flickers on again. Jim’s whole being starts to vibrate with apprehension. The light goes off again and he exhales loudly. Shadows behind the blinds cease to move. I wasn’t aware of it before, but grasshoppers are chirping loudly alongside a chorus of frogs. Yellow dots of firefly light appear and reappear throughout the neighborhood. The hot night air is heavy with humidity. The world has taken on an earthy smell. Everything is quiet. 

“Shall we pack it up and head home?” I ask. 

Jim sighs again. He crosses his arms and pouts. 

“Jesus, what's your problem now?" 

“Evey’s sleeping over at their house!” 

I want to beat my head against the wall. “Yes, because it’s a sleepover.” 

“I saved her life, that ungrateful little brat!” Despite the harshness of the words, it’s evident that he’s more hurt than angry. “And now she just wants to go off and join the Baptist Lesbians.” 

“She’s not Baptist, Jim. Calm down.” 

He slinks deeper into the sleeping bag so that his face is covered from the bridge of his nose downwards. “Kill them,” he whines, sounding positively pitiful. 

“Come on, Jim.” 

“No,” he whines, “they stole my little girl. Kill them.” 

“No.” 

“Yeesss!” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Jim, you’re being a child.” 

He submerges his entire head beneath the sleeping bag, groaning. “You did it in Switzerland!” 

“Amber and Susan haven’t kidnapped her.” 

“They have!” he says petulantly. “They’ve got her in a cult.” 

“James Moriarty. Get a hold of yourself. You’re a grown man.” 

“I’m saaaaad,” he bleats, black eyes peering up over the edge of the cover. 

“I know. Come on, let’s go home and we’ll get some snackies and then we’ll pick Evelyn up real early.” 

“No,” he says, disappearing beneath the blanket again. “If she wants to stay with them, she can. I don’t want her anymore.” 

I call his bluff. “Ok, then, let’s go home.” I grab the edge of his sleeping bag, tugging it back away from him. He resists with a loud whine. “Jim, I will push you out of this treehouse.” 

He pulls back just as hard. “I can’t leave her again! My backstabbing little heartbreaker! She needs her Daddy! Why does she hate me?!” 

“No, we aren’t doing this. We absolutely aren’t doing this.” I situate myself behind him and tug backwards, using the bag to trap his arms so he can’t get the leverage to resist. I lift him up, slinging him across my shoulders. 

For a moment, he’s silent, probably from shock. Then, he says softly and evenly, “When you fall asleep, I am going to cut off your balls and sew them to your eyesockets, and then I’m going to shove a curtain rod so far up your arse that I can see it in your mouth.” 

He says it like he’s listing off the shopping. I shudder. Jim is a very creepy little man. I forget that sometimes. 

“You’ll feel better after some sweets,” I tell him. 

“I mean it, Basher, I’m going to murder you when we get home.” 

I can tell that he means it. But Jim’s very changeable. And I can probably outrun him. “It’s not my home, remember? I just sleep there sometimes,” I remind him as I situate him through the opening of the treehouse. I (sort of) accidentally knock his head against the threshold. 

He doesn’t even yelp. He just says, “I’m going to shove your dick in a blender.” 

I check to see if he’s bleeding. He isn’t, so I begin the descent to the ground. 

There’s a click and the yard illuminates, but from the opposite side of the house. I freeze. “Oh fuck.” 

The front door is open. I can hear the soft sniffles of a child. Jim squirms over my shoulders. “Evelyn? Baby?” 

“Wan’ my daddy,” echoes its way over the lawn. It’s definitely Evelyn. 

Jim loses his shit. He’s writhing against me, trying to free his trapped arms, almost yelling in my ear. “We have to go, Basher, we have to go. Evelyn needs me! Basher--” 

And then I dropped him. I fucking dropped James Moriarty. I scramble down the ladder, cursing and hovering over him. He is livid. He expresses as much as I give him a once-over. “I am going to murder your entire family.” He subdues his scream when I touch the already swelling ankle. “Your nieces and your nephews and your sister and her husband . . . all of them. I’m going to feed them to alligators.” 

“Can you feel this?” I tap his other foot. 

He kicks me in the nose. My vision blurs for a moment, and I taste blood. “You just dropped me out of a tree!” 

“But are you okay?” 

“No!” 

“Just hang on, ok? I gotta run back to the house. I’ll be right back.” 

“That’s fine,” he says sarcastically. “I’ll just wait here.” 

I cross the lawns, reaching our backdoor, only to discover that it’s locked. Looking back on it, I’ll probably realize there was another solution, but for now, I kick the door open, sending all of the alarms inro a frenzy. I race to the front door, waiting for the knock. 

I can hear Evelyn’s sobs as they make their way up our drive. The sound absolutely shatters my heart. “Wan’ my daddy! Wan’ my daddy and my bed and my books and--” 

I throw open the door, unable to wait for the knock. “Baby girl!” She runs to me and starts crying even harder. “Hey, little lady, hey, it’s okay. I’m here now.” 

“Where’s Daddy?” she sobs, squirreling her way out of my arms to run through the house. She looks up with wide eyes. “Where’s Daddy?” she asks more frantically. “Why the alarms goin’ off?!” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. Daddy’s here. We just set them before bed, and I accidentally set them off, ok?” 

“Everything okay?” Susan asks, looking just as frantic as Evelyn. I touch my nose, realizing it’s still bleeding. I wipe it away. 

“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” I tell her, trying to look neighborly and convincing and like I didn’t just accidentally drop a criminal mastermind out of a treehouse. “I just, er, I don’t know the codes.” 

Susan’s eyes darken. “Where’s Addison?” 

“He’s, uh, he’s at the store.” 

“Why would he set the alarm?” she demands, taking a step closer to me. 

“He, uh, he has PTSD.” God, are American lesbians always this protective? Or is this a universal trait? 

“I thought you were going to be out of town?” She reaches for Evelyn. I cut her off. She’s not bothering to hide her suspicion. 

“I was. But then we thought, you know, damn, it’s been a really long time since me and Addi had a night together. So I moved some things around.” 

“So why did he go to the store?” 

“I don’t know, Susan!” I’m getting exasperated with the alarms going off and Jim’s neighbor interrogating me. “To get ice cream probably!” 

Evelyn’s tears instantly vanish. “Yay! Ice cream for me!” 

Susan shakes her head. “I’m not comfortable leaving Evelyn alone here without Addison.” 

I’m going to kill this woman. “Jesus, lady, just leave! I’m her daddy too!” 

“I’m calling the police.” She pulls out her mobile phone. 

I reach for her but immediately stop myself when I think about how much trouble that could cause. “Listen, Susan.” I shepherd her outside and shut the door, Evelyn still on the other side. The alarms are muffled now, and I can lie a little better. “We’re playing a game, if you catch my drift. It’s going to take a good half hour to get him down, and this is definitely not something we want to expose Evey to, understand?” 

Susan raises an eyebrow. 

“The alarms set the mood,” I lie. 

She rolls her shoulder, her protective stance fading. “I doubt that bondage and that stuff is good for his condition.” 

“Condition?! Oh, the PTSD. Yeah, no. . . it’s, er, it’s immersive. . . the doctor said it’s fine as long as there’s, you know, safe words and, you know, frankly, I’m not comfortable discussing this with you. I like you, you’re sweet, but this, this is family stuff, and you need to go home.” 

She stares me down. After a long awkward moment, she says, “I’ll swing by tomorrow to check on Evelyn and Addison.” With that, she turned and walked away. 

“I’m not an abusive husband!” I yell back. “Bitch.” 

Inside, Evelyn is jumping at the alarm keypad. “Pick me up Tiger Papa! Pick me up!” 

“What do you say?” 

“Please pick me up!” She doesn’t need to repeat it because I’m desperate for the alarms to stop. I lift her off the ground, let her punch in the numbers, and then set her back down. “Ice cream!” 

“Uh, no, not right now.” 

“Yes! Right now!” 

“Go put your suitcase in your room, okay? I gotta go take care of something.” 

“Ice cream first.” 

“No, missy, we’re putting your things away first. And then maybe some ice cream if Daddy says it’s okay.” 

Her shoulders sag in that exaggerated way of children mimicking reactions they see. She starts to lug her suitcase up the steps, and when she’s out of sight, I dash out the backdoor and across the lawn to Jim. 

He is staring blankly at the stars. The only acknowledgement of my presence is the statement, “I’ve pierced a lung.” 

“No, you haven’t.” I kneel down to take another look at that ankle. I lift the leg of his pyjama bottoms to see a purpling mess of skin, but no blood. “You’ve sprained your ankle.” 

“I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU FUCKING THREW ME OUT OF A TREE!” he screams. 

I cover his mouth, shushing him violently. “What the fuck is wrong with you? God, shut up!” I don’t move, waiting for the lights in the house to come on or for Susan to come back out and give me the third degree. Nothing happens. “All right. _Quietly_ , let’s get back home.” I help him get to his feet, eager to see if he can put any weight on the ankle. I doubt it’s broken, but I could be wrong. 

“How’s Evey?” He hisses in pain when he presses his foot to the ground. Nonetheless, he manages to take a step. 

I duck beneath his arm so that I can shoulder some of his weight. “She misses you.” We limp along back to the house. He’s desperate to see his little girl, so he’s moving faster than his ankle wants to allow for. 

“Good. She better miss me. I’m a great father,” he mumbles. “Watched that second _Aladdin_ film several times when she had the flu. It’s a terrible movie. But I did it. For her.” 

“I know, Jim.” 

“Don’t patronize me, you great oaf.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Yes you are, I can hear it in your tone!” 

“Stop talking! God, you are terrible at being sneaky.” 

Evey seems to forget about the ice cream when she sees her Daddy limping. “Oh no!” she gasps. “Daddy, what store did you go to?” 

“No, sweetheart, the store didn’t do this to me. Papa Tiger did.” 

I swat the back of his head. “Don’t tell her that.” 

“Don’t hit Daddy!” Evelyn shouts to me. Her eyes are filled with worry. She runs over to tackle Jim, and he yelps. “Daddy, are you all right?” 

He groans as he lifts her into his free arm. The other is still draped over my shoulders as I support/carry him to the sofa. “No. But seeing you makes me feel better,” he says with a smile. 

As if he hadn’t been threatening to abandon her less than fifteen minutes ago. 

Once I get the two settled on the sofa, Evelyn cuddles up beside him, taking his hand in hers and counting his fingers. He kisses the top of her head. “I missed you, Evey.” 

“Missed you, too, Daddy.” 

“Did you have fun?” 

She sighs dramatically. “Ms Amber and Ms Susan don’t got Play-Doh.” 

“What a travesty!” 

“Yeah and no tv!” 

“No!” he says, feigning shock. 

“Yes!” she says, matching his energy. 

“How did you ever survive?” 

“I escaped!” 

“Did you?” 

“Yes. I escaped.” 

“Of course you did. My clever little lady.” 

I roll my eyes. “That is not what happened. Susan brought you over!” 

“Shut up, Sebastian,” Jim orders, hurling a pillow at me. “It’s important that she creates her own narrative in dealing with stressful situations. She has to empower herself.” 

Evelyn nods at me, her eyes dark. “Yeah, Tiger!” She tugs at Jim’s shirt. “Daddy, want ice cream.” 

“No ma’am.” 

“Please?” 

“No ma’am. It is almost midnight. You should’ve been in bed a long time ago.” 

“I not sleepy anymore.” 

“Yes, but you’re going to be an absolute nightmare tomorrow.” 

“No,” she laughs. 

Jim cuddles her closer, his eyes soft and laser-focused on her. Her kisses her forehead again. “I love you, baby. My precious little angel. I was so worried about you.” 

Evelyn uses the opportunity to her advantage. “Can I have one ice cream?” 

Jim chuckles softly. “One ice cream.” 

“But a big one?” 

“A medium-sized one.” He tears his gaze away. “Papa Basher, go get us some ice cream.” 

“You’re teaching her bad habits,” I warn. Nonetheless, I’m already on my feet, heading to the kitchen. 

“We’ve had a tough night!” he shoots back. “We deserve ice cream! And bring me some Vicodin. I’m about to die of the agony of my BROKEN ANKLE.” 

“It’s not broken, you big baby!” 

“Wan’ me to kiss it better, Daddy?” 

“Would you, sweetheart? I think that might help.” I’m in the kitchen with my back to the living room, so I can’t see what’s happening, but I hear Jim screech in anguish. “Damn it, no, don’t do that. Fuck. Ow!” 

Evelyn laughs, clapping her hands. “Fuck!” she repeats. 

“Evelyn!” Jim and I both shout in unison. 

While he tells her about “adult words” and other things she shouldn’t say, such as “bomb,” I prepare two small bowls of chocolate chip ice cream. I grab some ice packs out of the freezer as well and some cellophane to wrap Jim’s ankle. 

After Jim’s taken the painkillers, and I’ve propped his leg up on the sofa, he and Evelyn begin to doze. Her little head rests on his chest, his arm still wrapped around her. It’s a sweet image, the two of them. I grab his comforter from his bed and cover the two of them up, doing my best to tuck them in without waking them. 

I should go sleep on my bed in the playroom, I know. There’s no reason to sleep downstairs. There’s not even a free sofa to sleep on. But I want to be with my makeshift family. I want to keep my Jim out of pain and my Evelyn safe and sound. I want to hear their breathing as they sleep and see their soft silhouettes rise and sink as they inhale and exhale. I want to be with them. They are apart of who I am now, I realize. It’s a terrifying realization but also one that brings me a great deal of comfort. 

This is who I am now. Sebastian Moran. Ex-Colonel. Womanizer. Gambler. Murderer. Papa. And. . . whatever I am to Jim. 

Gay panic edges in, but I subdue it. Sleeping in the same room as my daughter’s father doesn’t make me homosexual. Right? This is just my family. It’s not sexual, my relationship with Jim. I like women. I like cunts. I like breasts and butts and full lips and the curve of hips. Jim doesn’t have these. And I don’t think of Jim like that. Right? 

Right. 

I shake my head, grab a quilt from the linen closet, and curl up in the armchair to sleep. It’s only in the morning that I remember I have a voicemail from Anisa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the use of the word cunt.
> 
> I promise the next chapter will explore the more romantic/sexual side of Jim and Basher's relationship. Promise.


	12. Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OH MY GOD I JUST REALIZED I FUCKED UP THE TIMELINE OH MY GOD -- if you read this earlier on 2/2/17, I fucked up. I had to change the location and the dates. Jesus, someone edit me for God's sake.**

_September 2013_

Why the world always seems quieter when it’s snowing, I’ll never know. I don’t know if it’s legitimately quieter or if it’s just my brain projecting the silence onto my surroundings. But right now, at this moment, it’s blissfully quiet. The flames in the fireplace have mostly subsided, and only the occasional crackle echoes through the cabin. 

It’s been a fucking great day. I won about 850,000 AUD at a casino in Adelaide. I got a clear cut shot at a “truth in journalism” activist while he drank his coffee on the balcony of his hotel room, and the round slipped silently through his skull so fast, I was half-way through packing up before blood was even visible on his skin. Last I heard, his body hadn’t even been discovered yet. With Juric out of the picture, nothing was stopping Magnussen from owning the newspaper market in Croatia. (Poor bastard was in Australia for a lecture at the University of Adelaide.) 

Some shots are just beautiful. They go off perfectly. The wind is steady while the bullet glides through the air, the silencer keeps the echo to a minimum, and the victim goes down like he’s sliding on silk. It’s gorgeous. And the blood splatter . . . let me tell you, some of my most perfect shots have had the most beautiful patterns. Juric’s blood had glided through the air onto the white chair opposite him like raindrops, landing in perfectly round circles. 

And now, I’m in Devonport, Tasmania, laying here beside Anisa, the cabin air still heavy with the smell of sex and firewood. Normally, I hate the cold and the snow, but this is perfection, bundled up in warm, heavy blankets watching the snow fall while Ani clings to me for heat. She’d been less than thrilled about the lack of electricity, but who was going to turn down the chance to fuck for pay in an isolated little cabin. 

This is a perfect moment. 

But at this moment, I can’t shake this pseudo-depression hanging over me. It’s my birthday. Or yesterday was my birthday. I have no idea what time it is. Either way, I'm on holiday, and I’m spending it with someone whose affections I pay for. 

I can’t help but wonder about her family. Does she have one? Why isn’t she ever with them? Do her clients drag her away from them? When is _her_ birthday? Why, after six years, do I know nothing about her? Does she ever spend time with her family? Friends? Maybe. . . maybe I'm all she has. 

“If you weren’t here,” I pause, taking a long drag of my cig, “where would you be right now?” 

She exhales a series of smoke rings before answering. “Probably with that weird froggy bloke we met at the casino.” 

“Gross.” 

“I’ve worked a lot worse.” 

“I mean, if I hadn’t brought you here, if you were still in Greenwich, right now, where would you be?”

She shrugs, flicking her ashes at my chest. “Working, I guess.” 

“But, like, what do you do to celebrate special occasions? Like your birthday? Or Christmas?” 

“I work, Basher.” 

“Really? You don’t celebrate the holidays with your family ever?” 

She snorts. “Oh my god, are you serious right now?” 

“Yes, I’m serious.” 

“Tiger, come on now.” She sits up, looking me dead in the eyes, smiling at me like I’m an idiot. “You know when I’m in the highest demand? The holidays.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” she answers as if it’s the most obvious information in the world. “People get all emotional, they wanna feel like they’re not alone, like they haven’t fucked up their lives. Like 80% of my job is just trying to ease someone’s guilt and loneliness.” 

“Why not be, I don’t know, like a counselor or something?” 

She takes a long drag, annoyed with my line of questioning. “Because I like fucking, Basher. You can’t sleep with clients. Or you’re not supposed to.” 

I let that settle over me. People use her for company, she uses them for money. Four years ago, I thought I might marry this woman. 

And now, I just . . . I think . . . I want to be with my little makeshift family in Texas. I want to share my birthday day with my little girl and her emotionally unstable father. I want to tell Jim about how beautiful Juric’s death was. I want to help Evelyn decide which Princess Superhero she wants to go as for Halloween. I want to start a bonfire while Jim holds Evey at a safe distance. 

I bet I could talk Jim into letting her help me. She could light the kindling, something that won't burn too hot. She loves to do things by herself. She loves to be hands-on. Sometimes that stresses Jim out. Like when he chaperoned her trip to the Serpentarium. 

“Do you ever see your family?” 

She shrugs again, her annoyance growing. “Sometimes. Jesus, Bash, what is this?” 

I have no idea. “Nothing.” 

“Is this Catholic guilt? Or are you doing the whole ‘let me save you from this life’ bit?” 

“No. No, you’re great at what you do, babe. I’m just thinking that you should maybe, I don’t know, be with your family sometimes.” 

She cocks an eyebrow. “Ok, it's _your_ birthday. Are you with _your_ family?” 

“No, I guess not.” 

“Then why are we having this conversation?” 

I have no idea. 

I don’t know. I don’t know anything. And that no-knowledge is snowballing, catching more and more momentum. I don’t know who I am right here. Anisa doesn’t know who I am. Carrie has made it clear that she doesn’t want to know me. Magnussen doesn’t care about who I am. 

Evelyn knows me. She may not know everything, but she knows that I’ll die for her, that I’ll protect her at all costs. Jim knows me. 

My breath catches in my chest when I realize that I would die for Jim. That I’d protect him at all costs. My heart starts pounding. I wonder if my love extends only to Evelyn now or if it’s reach has expanded. 

I feel hot all over. The back of my neck feels prickly with the heat of my discomfort. I can’t be in love with James Moriarty. We’re friends. We’re best friends. Jesus, when did I become a fourteen-year-old girl? 

“You should spend more time with your family. I should be with my family right now.” I roll over, bringing Anisa's chest flush to mine. God, she’s beautiful. Her nipples pressed against my chest increases the bloodflow to my groin. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave this cozy little cabin out in the middle of Australian Nowhere. I want to fuck Anisa. I want to finish off this prosecco. 

I want to hold Evelyn. I want to listen to Jim read to her about clouds and bugs and outer space and whales before she goes to sleep. I want to sleep in my pitiful little twin-sized bed in the playroom so that I can wake up to feeling of Evelyn tap-counting my fingers. 

I want to tell Jim about the casino. I want to stop him from yelling at the neighbors. 

And then, all of the panic solidifies into one crystal clear thought. 

_I haven’t been to my own flat in six months._

I’ve been bouncing from hotel room to hotel room to Jim’s house to hotel room to Anisa’s place, and I haven’t even realized it. I haven’t missed it. 

I have a home. It’s not here. 

Six months. I’ve been making flights to Texas for six months. 

I can’t breathe. 

This is not who I am. 

It is now, though. 

Anisa’s staring at me. I kiss those perfect pouty red lips for what I realize is likely the very last time. I have to make it count. I may never kiss a woman again. She purrs against my mouth. “Time for round two?” 

I nuzzle against her, hesitating. 

Meh. What’s one more roll in the hay before I give up my life as a bachelor forever? 

~~

I have a lot of time to think on the train from Melbourne to Sydney. I have even more time to think on the flight from Sydney to New York City. 

I think about the first time I ever saw Jim, face-to-face. 

_I had just checked into my hotel room in Seoul, South Korea, hadn’t even turned on the lights, when a voice in the dark lilted, “How comfortable are you removing vital organs while the “donor” is still breathing?” I pulled my gun, ready to blow whoever it was away._

_“Sweetheart, no need for guns. Daddy’s just here to chat.” The lights came on of their own accord. I searched for someone else in the room. No sign of another person, just the short little Irishman with a receding hairline and empty black eyes. He put his feet up on the coffee table of my hotel room and smiled pleasantly._

_Calling himself Daddy made the connection in my head. “You’re the Professor, eh?” I snort. “You’re a scrawny little thing, aren’t you?” I keep my pistol trained on him._

_“And you’re quite a big boy,” he purred. Then he leaned in closer. “Insult me again, and they’ll never find your body.” He sat back, his demeanor returning to flirtatious and unnerving. “I’d like a coffee.”_

_“I’m not your waiter.”_

_He tsked loudly. “Oh, darling, this interview isn’t going well at all.”_

_”Interview? I already work for you.”_

_”I need a bodyguard. And someone to get their hands dirty. Well, dirtier. I do hate getting brain matter stains out of suits. My last chief of staff met a rather tragic ending, and I’m in the market for a new one.”_

_It was an intriguing offer. ”What’s the pay?”_

_He examined his empty hand. “Why do I still not have a coffee?”_

_I took his order and placed it with room service, then took a seat across from him. He was relaxed even with my pistol still pointing at his chest. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said. “Very impressive resume, by the way. I’ve been trying to break into the exotic fur trade for a year now with no luck. Hopefully, you can be of assistance in that regard. Assuming you’re offered the job.” Something in that tranquil smile told me that I would die if I wasn’t. Either I exited this room in the position of The Professor’s chief of staff or in a bodybag in a few days._

_”I didn’t trade,” I warned him. “I just sold to the traders.”_

_”And you did your own killing, too. So, you can outsmart an animal, at least. Tell me, am I paying for this room or is Daddy Dearest?”_

_My blood ran cold. “What?”_

_”Your Daddy. Augustus Moran, UK ambassador to India. Alcoholic, philanderer, child abuser.”_

_”Get out,” I breathed._

_His grin broadened. “That scar behind your ear,” he said, his tone completely conversational, “it’s not from a prostitute in Liverpool. Daddy branded you, didn’t he? My, my, whatever did little Sebbie do?” His eyes darkened further. “Was it about the kittens? The ones you couldn’t save from the storm drain?” He leaned forward, his head pressing against the business end of my pistol. His voice was deeper, hollow now. “Or was it because you didn’t smile pretty for the cameras? Senator Warren was quite upset, wasn’t she?”_

_I couldn’t breathe. No one knew about that. Augustus had cleared it up, he promised. He’d said the senator had destroyed the photographs to avoid going to prison. God, I was so little . . . I grabbed the sick fuck by the collar, pressing the weapon harder against his skull. I had nothing to say, of course. I couldn’t speak._

_The Professor just laughed. “Touchy subject, eh? Well, it was just the one time. For the good of the country and all that.”_

“It’s just this one time,” Augustus had said to seven-year-old Sebastian. “Do it for the good of the empire, son. Stop crying.” 

_”I don’t need your fucking job,” I growled at the intruder, pressing the gun harder against his skull. I don’t know why I didn’t pull the trigger then._

_”As much as I like it rough, sweetheart, I can’t have barrel indentations on my forehead. Bruises on the face are bad for business.” He made no move to pull away from the weapon. “You’re such a perfect specimen of Western masculinity, it’d be a shame to maim you before I even have the chance to kill you properly.” He reached with his gloved hand to stroke my face. “And for someone with your looks, pussycat, I have a special method of execution. I do appreciate a beautiful corpse.”_

That man, the Professor, was one in the same as the man, Jim, who had cried in a treehouse about Baptist lesbians stealing his daughter. My daughter. The man who taunted me about the abuse I’d endured as a boy was the same one that cried on my shoulder when Evelyn got her vaccination shots during her last check-up. 

Reflecting on it, I realize that Jim’s always had a little crush on me. I think for a while I was just his pretty pet sniper that kept his enemies at bay or put them in the ground. I think that changed the night he dropped Evelyn off at my place. He’d trusted me to watch his little girl. When he was abducted, he trusted that I would come to his baby’s aid. When she was taken, he knew that I come for both of them. He’d bought a bed, knowing that I would be back. 

Moriarty and Jim, one in the same, trusted me. Was it possible that he maybe loved me? Did I even really love him? 

I think about the time he shot at me in his pants. The image didn’t particularly appeal to me. Flat arse, flat chest, small bulge in the crotch, the line of him hard and straight. And I could certainly do without the chest hairs, however sparse they were. I couldn’t be in love with someone I wasn’t attracted to, right? Especially not someone like Moriarty. 

And yet, touching him felt right. Not earth-shattering, not revolutionary, just simple and sweet, like adding a dash of honey to tea. I’d touched his shoulder at Evelyn’s baptism. I’d carried him to the sofa the night he fell from the treehouse. I’d kissed his cheek in front of his student. 

And. . . he’d hugged me in Switzerland. Granted, Evelyn had been kidnapped and he’d been trying to tell me something, but it had happened. There had been soft or instructional touches between the two of us over the past few years. None of them had felt wrong. Not particularly sexual, either, but not wrong. 

I suppose I could focus on those long eyelashes and large eyes. He has slender fingers like a woman and a plump bottom lip. But it feels wrong to focus on what could be feminine features of James Moriarty, because if I do love him, and I think I do, I love him as who he is, as a man. 

Do I really love him? Or do I just love that he loves Evelyn? 

Maybe it is just a friendship love. What I feel for him is drastically different than what I felt for previous girlfriends. Maybe? 

I’ve never been very good at pinpointing the specifics of my feelings. It’s always just a vague idea of what’s happening internally 

~~

It’s three days after my birthday when I finally arrive at the little house in the suburbs of Galveston. No bonfires now, no celebrations. But it’s ok. I’ll be here for future ones. 

Jim hasn’t bothered to lock the door, so I walk right in. A warm, salty-sweet smell greets me. Jim’s probably preparing stew for dinner, followed closely by Evelyn’s cheering and tackling me. She really does get bigger every time I see her. I squeeze her tightly, peppering kisses along her forehead. 

“Soon you’ll be knocking me over, missy,” I tell her. 

She cackles. “Yep. I’mma grow through the roof.” 

“I don’t think Daddy will be happy about that.” 

“You fix it,” she says confidently. 

“If it comes to that, I sure will.” 

I set her down and look up to see Jim leaning on the sofa. “I hope you had a snack on the plane. I didn’t realize you were coming.” His brow furrows as he studies my face. “Something the matter?” 

I have a feeling I’m about to get my teeth knocked in. I scratch the back of my neck. Jim is staring at me, trying to read me. 

I take a few steps closer to him, locking my eyes on his. Realization crosses his eyes, and he doesn’t move. He knows what I’m about to do. He hasn’t withdrawn. 

My heart is beating like crazy in my chest. It’s making my head ache. My palms are sweaty from how tightly my fists have been clenched for most of the drive here. 

_Just do it._

I put my hand on the back of his neck, inching myself closer. His eyes are wider now, his lips just barely parted. He hasn’t moved otherwise. 

I can smell his cologne now, and the lingering scent of onions on his hands and the green apple dish soap he’s tried to wash it away with. It’s in sharp contrast to the usual scents I catch when I’m this close to someone. If it’s a victim, you can smell the fear. If it’s a lover, it’s usually vanilla or something florally. 

I lick my lips, realizing how ridiculously dry my mouth is. I start to say something. “Um. . .” 

But then I take the plunge. I duck down to press my lips against his. A small, chaste kiss, one he can escape easily, one I can withdraw from quickly. A soft, underwhelming kiss that feels right and comfortable and strange and maybe a little repulsive. 

Nothing about him tastes or smells or feels feminine. I feel virtually nothing in terms of arousal. Nonetheless, it feels right, like a puzzle piece fitting together with another one. It’s not a dramatic feeling, it’s not a _Princess Bride_ -level kiss that people write stories about; but it’s a deep feeling, something that anchors itself into the depths of my soul. I wonder if I’ll have to go to confession, or if this is something God can overlook. _Love covers a multitude of sins. . ._

I’m home. 

This is my family. 

“Ewww!” Evelyn squeals, covering her eyes. “Cooties!” 

Jim steps back. “What the hell was that?” he asks. 

I shrug. “No idea. I gave Anisa about half a million quid. It was in Australian dollars, though, so she'll lose some in the conversion.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. I told her to go to business school. She’d make a killing as a madam, working only half as much.” 

“Why?” he asks again. 

“I don’t know. I just thought she needed to be with her family more.” 

He chuckles, patting my face. “You’re an idiot, Basher.” He disappears into the kitchen. 

Evelyn jumps up at me. “Me next, me next! I want kisses!” 

I’m more than happy to shower my daughter with kisses. “I’ve missed you guys so much.”


	13. Pollination, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes lives. Jim loses it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim says some not-so-nice things. Be wary of threats of child abuse. And partner abuse. And Jim is bleeding all over the house. 
> 
> This actually got way outta hand. Like, originally I was just gonna have Jim be all upset and what not . . . then it just got kinda violent.
> 
> If that bothers you or triggers you or negatively impacts your mental health in any way, turn back now.

_November 2013_

Jim’s hands are lithe, ending in thin fingers, and yet there’s something distinctly masculine about them. Maybe it's just my own confirmation bias. Maybe his hands aren't masculine or feminine because they're just hands. I can’t pretend that I’m holding a woman’s hand though, not that I would anyway. I’ve had to tell myself over and over again that if I am going to love Jim, I am going to love him as he is. No pretending or imagining or feminizing.

His fingers are long, slim, but dense. His nails are short and trim. He’s gotten back into the habit of weekly manicures. He takes Evelyn with him, and she gets superhero stickers on her fingernails. 

I like holding Jim’s hand. The spaces between my fingers are stretched wider when I hold hands with him versus when I held hands with girlfriends; the contrast shouldn’t be so severe, I know, but, in my mind, it is. His hands are warmer, too. He tries to keep his skin soft and hydrated and supple, and he succeeds everywhere except his hands. For whatever reason, his hands are always a little scaly, just on the surface. The skin beneath the surface is bouncy and resilient, but the top layer is always a whisper away from being scratchy. I think it has to do with his hand-washing obsession. 

We’ve graduated from little chaste kisses when he comes home or I come home to tongue kissing after Evelyn’s tucked in. His lips are different than a woman’s, but I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth that’s different. He tastes different, too. There’s something bitter in the skin of his lips and in the wetness of his mouth. And, inevitably, something chocolatey, but that’s not nature’s doing. 

I’ve grown into it, the kissing, the touching. It was difficult at first, to be honest. The taste, the touch, his body pressed against mine--it all felt wrong initially, like my brain was trying to stop me from touching a hot stove. My first instinct was to pull away, fast, because this wasn’t what I wanted. 

Beneath instinct, though, was something else. Something in the more evolved part of my brain telling me that this was good. This was a good decision. My Jim. My family. My home. All of these things were good. It’s a difficult thing to express, being simultaneously physically repulsed and mentally aroused. The repulsion is mostly gone now, though I can’t say I enjoy our little sessions as much as Jim does, not on a visceral level. Emotionally, I do. I enjoy the intimacy and the closeness. Physically, I don’t feel the urgency. I’m okay with this most of the time. 

We don’t have sex. I don’t offer, and Jim doesn’t ask. I sleep in my bed, and he sleeps in his. No morning breath. No sleep farts. No snoring. It’s not a bad little set up. 

I love Jim. I think he loves me. 

He leans on my shoulder while he grades papers, and I keep my arm around his shoulder when we take Evelyn to the park. It feels more natural as the weeks pass. Sometimes we share drinks, and sometimes he’ll offer me a taste of whatever’s on his fork when we go out for tea. 

To my knowledge, he doesn’t see anyone else. I’m relieved. I would hate to be the only faithful party in a same-sex relationship when I’m the one who’s straight. Am I straight? If you’re raising a child with another man, kissing him goodnight and making him breakfast in the morning, can you still be straight? 

Who knows? I should research it, but queer theory and gender studies is just . . . no. I’m a man, through and through, and I like women. I just happen to be in love with a man. Who is fucking crazy and counts my fingers when we’re curled up on the sofa. 

I like this life. I like that I’ve gone from being “Papa Tiger” or “Tiger Papa” or “Papa Basher” to just “Papa” now. I like that when I leave for a job, Evelyn knows I’ll be back. I like knowing that when I get back, two loved ones will be there to greet me. I like telling Jim about the blood splatter, about the shots, about the near-misses that come with my line of work. I think he likes hearing about them. 

It’s not exciting, no, but it’s comfortable. More than comfortable. It’s deeply, deeply satisfying. Like changing into dry sweat pants after a long run in the rain. 

And so, when I come home from taking Evelyn to the dentist and see the front window shattered and the door wide open, I go into defense mode. “Stay here,” I tell Evelyn before I get out of the vehicle. She tries to ask questions but I tell her to be quiet. She must sense the urgency, because she obeys. (Evelyn generally doesn’t ever shut up. God, I love that little girl, even when she’s an absolute pain in my arse.) 

The house is a wreck. The pillows have been ripped apart, the sofa cushions have been hurled across the room, knocking over plants and lamps and books. The windows in the living room and the kitchen have been shattered, as have all the mirrors. I see alternating droplets and streams of blood all over the house, and my heart sinks. 

“Jim?!” 

As I trace the trail of blood into his bedroom, I can make out the hum of a television that’s been turned on and muted. With my knife at the ready, I approach the threshold of his bedroom. “James?” 

I swing around, ready to attack. 

He’s standing there in the middle of the room with his back to me, his shirt sliced and bloodied, pieces of glass jutting out of his knuckles. He’s perfectly still, his gaze focused on the television. 

Jim is livid. I can see it in the posture of his shoulders. He’s tight and drawn up, his body reacting to guard his core. 

“Jim?” I ask again. 

I don’t know why but I’m terrified to approach him. I do it anyway, but I realize I’m holding my breath. I grab his shoulder and spin him around. 

He looks like hell. Long red lines mark where he’s clawed at his face, and his eyes are red as fire. A vein protrudes out of his forehead. There’s another one in his neck. 

“What the hell happened?” 

I don’t think he even sees me. His eyes are glazed over. I realize there’s bits of glass on his lips. He tilts his head in his serpentine way and then roars, “HE’S STILL ALIVE.” 

I have no idea what the fuck he’s on about. He must see that, because he spins around and unmutes the television. 

“. . . last year after journalist Kitty Riley’s death. Sherlock Holmes has since been cleared of all charges of forgery, criminal misconduct, obstruction of justice, and homicide. Here we have Philip Anderson, the unofficial spokesman of the I Believe in Sherlock Holmes movement . . .” 

Before I can fully grasp what’s being reported, Moriarty hurls the remote control into the plasma screen, shattering the glass and silencing the reporter. “I WILL KILL YOU.” 

“I don’t under--” 

He cackles darkly, swinging his fist at me. “Of course you don’t understand, you idiot!” I catch him by the wrist before those glass-riddled knuckles can clip me. “You couldn’t even follow simple orders!” He struggles out of my grasp. “You were supposed to kill John Watson!” 

My temper flares. “You need to calm the fuck down, James, or else.” 

His face splits into a maniacal grin. “Or else what? You’ll punch me? Shoot me? _Skin_ me? You couldn’t pull the trigger on Holmes’s boytoy! You useless--” 

I do punch him. Not hard enough to knock him down, just enough to remind him that I’m the one with the brawn in this spat. When he turns back to me, my blood runs cold. Pure hatred is painted on Moriarty’s face, that cold brand of hatred that doesn’t kill in a fit of rage but in the dark of the night. 

“Sherlock Holmes is still alive.” 

“What? No he’s not. I saw him jump!” 

“DID YOU SEE HIM HIT THE GROUND?” 

“I. . .” I think back to that moment. I’d been on the street by the time Holmes actually jumped. As soon as I saw Jim shoot himself, I knew I had to get Evelyn. I left my perch and ran. I didn’t see Sherlock Holmes hit the ground. 

Jim rears back and slaps me in the face. I feel the glass in his palm graze my cheek. “NO! YOU DIDN’T! BECAUSE YOU LEFT YOUR POST!” 

“I had to get Evelyn!” I grab his wrists again, pinning them to his side. 

“I _had_ her, you fucking idiot. She’s mine! YOUR ONE JOB WAS TO MAKE SURE THAT SHERLOCK HOLMES OR HIS BUDDIES DIED!” 

“I didn’t know you had Evelyn!” 

“IT DOESN’T MATTER! SHE ISN’T YOUR CONCERN! WHY IS SHERLOCK HOLMES STILL ALIVE?!” 

“Evelyn is mine too!” 

“No! No,” his voice gets soft. “Don’t think that because you get to sleep in my house and eat my food and play with my child that you mean anything at all to me. Do you understand? I will kill you without a second thought. You have this romantic image of me in your head, that we’re some domestic couple, raising a child in the suburbs, but don’t you dare forget who I am and what I’ve done.” I can see the obsession in his eyes now. He’s fixated. His brain is stuck in a loop of “KILL SHERLOCK HOLMES.” “YOU MEAN NOTHING, SEBASTIAN.” 

“I mean something to Evelyn.” 

“THEN FUCKING TAKE HER! TAKE HER, SHE’S ALL YOURS! I NEVER WANTED HER ANYWAY!” 

I grab him by the throat. “Shut. Your. Goddamn. Mouth.” 

His eyes light up when he realizes he’s hit a nerve. “I’ll kill her, Moran. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead.” His voice is dreamy, like he’s just had an idea for a garden party. “John Watson was supposed to be dead. You failed. And so, your daughter--your little weed as you so affectionately call her--will pay the price. Just like old times, eh, Basher?” 

My hands are around his neck, squeezing until petechiae appear in his eyes. I think I’m going to kill him. Not as in, “Oh, I accidentally killed him in a fit,” but as in I am seriously considering choking the life out of him. Purposefully and willfully ending him. 

But . . . he’s just Jim -- insane, obsessive Jim. And now the loop of his obsession has been triggered. His eyes are jet black, empty. I’d seen this with prisoners before. I’d get them good and addicted to heroine, and then when I needed something, all I had to do was deny them their fix. They’d beg and plead, and literally nothing else mattered in the world. Not family, not country, not cause. “Are you gonna do this, James?” I demand, my voice low. My hands still cut off his airways. “Are you gonna let Sherlock Holmes be more important than Evelyn again? Are you gonna let him dictate how you spend your time and what you think about again? Are you that weak that an addict detective can control you?” 

His eyes roll around until they meet mine. He doesn’t even gasp for air. If he wasn’t slowly turning purple, I’d think my ministrations were having no effect on him. I can see the wheels spinning in his brain, trying to get traction, trying to get out of the “KILL SHERLOCK HOLMES” rut. 

Goddamn bastard. How dare he threaten Evelyn like that? I toss him to the ground like rag doll. “Don’t move.” He stares at me like he’s never seen me before, like he’s just watching a movie, like none of this is real. I rummage around in the medicine cabinet and return a few seconds later. He hasn’t moved at all. I’m not even sure he’s breathing. 

“Give me your hand,” I order. He tilts his head, challenging me. “Now, Jim.” I hold up the little white pill. I could’ve given him the lorazepam injection but giving him the option of taking it seemed like a much better choice. 

He pops his mouth open, sticking out his tongue, eyes still lifeless. I put the pill on his tongue and watch him pull it back into his mouth. He dry-swallows it. I check his teeth and under his tongue to make sure he’s actually taken it. 

“You have four hours to get your shit together, Jim. I’m gonna take Evelyn to the cinema and then to the bookstore, and when we get back, you better have your act together, do you understand?” 

He rolls his eyes. “My act?” he smirks. 

I sigh. I take his wrist, folding his fingers between my own, careful to avoid shoving glass into my skin or further into his. My voice gets softer. “Jim, when we get back, you’re going to put Evelyn to bed, you’re going to kiss her goodnight, and then you’re going to come to this bed and . . .” How do I say this? Do I want to say it? “. . . and I’ll take care of you, ok?” 

Sarcasm lights up his eyes as he realizes what I mean by “take care of.” He snorts. His voice is foggy and far off, as though he’s providing commentary on the situation. “Have a magic cock, do you? You can just make this all better, eh? Pity you decided just now to use it. Perhaps you could’ve used it to stop daddy from hitting mummy.” His words cut me to the quick. 

My temper flares again, and I ram his head into the wall. I think he blanks for a split second. I didn’t have enough leverage to do more damage than a knot on the back of his skull. “No,” I answer, trying to keep my voice gentle. “No . . . no, Jim, I just wanna take care of you, okay?” I cup his face, wary of hidden glass shards, and pull him in to kiss his forehead. “Do you want me to take you to hospital?” 

Jim doesn’t move for a long minute. His eyes are darting back and forth, like he’s reading something. He stops abruptly and inhales loudly. He shakes his head, staring straight through me, looking defeated. 

“Are you going to be able to dig out all the glass yourself?” 

He takes another deep breath and lifts his hand to study it. The shards of glass and the rivulets of blood catch the light. 

“Daddy?” Evelyn calls from the hallway. 

Jim’s eyes shut. He leans against the wall. A single tear slips down his face. 

“Daddy’s not feeling well, baby,” I shout back. “Go back to the car, please. We’re going to go see a movie, yeah?” 

“I wanna see Daddy.” 

“Not right now, princess,” Jim yells hoarsely. 

“You gonna be here when I get back?” I ask. 

He nods. 

“Can you stitch yourself up?” 

He nods again. 

“Both sides?” 

“I’m ambidextrous.” 

I half-smile. I cup his face again, stroking bits of mirror from his bottom lip. He freezes the way a rabbit does when it’s spooked. His eyes meet mine. I feel like it’s the first time he’s really seen me since I arrived. I kiss him again, this time on the lips, again careful not to get cut. He doesn’t kiss me back. 

As I exit the room, he says from the floor, “I would never hurt her, Sebastian. Ever.” 

“If I thought you would, you’d be in the ground by now.” 

~~

Evelyn wasn’t crazy about _Frozen_. I wasn’t either. On the way to the bookstore, she tells me she likes Tiana better than “the snow girl” because Tiana has a job. 

Once inside, I don’t let go of Evelyn’s hand. My head knows that Jim wouldn’t hurt her, but his threats still ring in my ears, mingling with Magnussen’s. Fucking no one touches my baby. 

She’s staring intently at the picture books lining the shelves. “I wanna get Daddy a book, Papa.” 

“Yeah?” I kneel down beside her, still clutching her hand. 

She nods her head. I’m amazed at how much more coordinated she is at four versus at three. Watching a human grow is truly bizarre. “When I’m sick he reads to me.” 

“Oh? So you’re gonna read to him?” She is just amazing, really. She's so proactive and thoughtful. 

She thinks about it, then shrugs. 

I’m beaming at her like an idiot, but my little girl is smart as hell. “I bet you could, you know. I bet Daddy would really like it, too.” 

She buries her face against my shoulder, shy. “No.” 

“He would.” 

“I can’t read fast.” 

“You read out the film times at the cinema pretty fast.” 

“Those are just numbers, Papa.” 

I press a kiss to her cheek. She is so damn smart. Seriously, there’s never been a smarter kid ever in the history of the world, and if there has been, fuck them, because Evelyn is the smartest kid ever. “I bet Daddy would really like to be read to.” 

She scrunches up her nose, deep in thought. Oh my God, she is so cute. She is so fucking cute. “You do it.” 

I shake my head. “No. You do it.” 

She turns to study my face. She suddenly looks very conflicted. “Can you read, Papa?” she asks quietly. 

I cover my mouth to hide my laughter. “Yes, baby, I can read. I read all these emails you send me. And when you were even smaller, I used to read to you at bedtime when Daddy was gone.” 

She looks back to the shelves of books, touching her chin in thought the way Jim does. “Ok, but I wanna practice first.” She says practice without the first “c.” I literally love every single thing about this child. 

~~

Evelyn bursts through the door to the house before I can stop her, huddling _The Tiger Who Came to Tea_ close to her chest. She’s supposed to wait until I unbuckle her, but she never does unless we’re coming back from mass. Currently, she’s too excited about her new book and the prospect of reading it to her Daddy. 

The windows have been patched with painter’s plastic, and I don’t see any blood stains on the blinds. It’s probably safe to go in. I hope. 

I follow her inside, pleased to see some kind of powdery cleaner on the carpet where Jim’s bled in the foyer and on the giant rug in the living room. He’s also mopped the hardwood floors in the living room and dining room. I don’t see blood on the walls, meaning he’s likely painted over the stains. The mirrors are all gone, as are the pillows he’d shredded and the lamps he’d shattered. The sofa and loveseat seem to be in good order, though. It doesn’t look like our living room, but it definitely resembles it. 

The framed pictures of Evelyn and Jim have been reframed, too. There’s even one of her and me together holding hands at the beach. I don’t know if this is an apology or just part of Jim’s need to have certain things _just so_. 

“Daddy!” Evelyn calls. I look into Jim’s room. He’s in his pyjamas, perched on his bed with his computer on his lap, phone by his side and his tablet at his feet. He’s self-stitched his face and arms and hands; if I wasn’t looking for evidence of his tantrum earlier, I wouldn’t have noticed the stitches. I suppose a criminal mastermind would have to be good at mending his own wounds. He doesn’t even hear her. “Daddy!” she calls again, climbing onto the bed. He startles when she tugs at his shirt. I tense up, watching his eyes adjust from the screen to real life. I suppose I still don’t trust him. “Daddy, I got you a book!” 

A weak smile splays over his face. He pulls her into his lap, kissing her. “My precious little lady.” 

“Stop,” she orders, swatting him away. “I’m gonna read you a bedtime story!” Jim looks a little lost at the rejection. 

“Evey, I think Daddy probably needs some cuddles first, don’t you? Because he’s not feeling well?” 

She looks at me then looks up at him, studying his face. “Izzat true?” she asks, suspicious. 

He nods. “I could definitely do with some hugs and kisses.” 

She furrows her brows and leans up to kiss him. “That’s all you get until after storytime!” 

Jim weakly smiles at me. “Withholding affection already.” He scrubs his face and closes his laptop. “I’ve got to brush my teeth first.” 

Evelyn bounces on the bed as Jim slinks off to the toilet. “Papa, go get changed into your ‘jamas too!” 

She should say “please” and I should make her say “please” but I’m starting to feel the weight of my promise to Jim, so my Papa skills are subpar at the moment. “Be right back,” I tell her. 

In the playroom/guestroom, I fumble around in the pocket of my denims, searching for the little blue pill I’d purchased a month ago from my dealer in London. Up until Moriarty’s “death,” I’d always purchased stimulants from her. They were good for keeping victims awake while I, er, adjusted them. (That’s a good idea--maybe I’ll tell Evelyn I’m a chiropractor the next time she asks what my work is!) When the dealer asked why I needed Viagra, I told her to mind her fucking business. 

Truthfully, I don’t know if this will work. I don’t know that it will keep me hard while I take care of Jim. I don’t know that I’ll be able to get it up at all. He doesn’t have the parts I like . . . but he’s Jim. My Jim. 

Is it fair to him to even take this pill? Am I being deceptive? 

He was a little bitch this afternoon. If he finds out and it hurts his pride that I have to take a pill to fuck him, so be it. 

God, I don’t wanna do this. I think. Maybe. Maybe I do. If worse comes to worst, I can always just suck him off, right? 

“Papa!” I’m changing into shorts and a tee shirt when Evelyn calls from Jim’s room. She’s impatient as hell when she gets excited. “Papa we are waiting on you!” 

“Coming, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex is in the next chapter.


	14. Pollination, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex
> 
> I suppose this might possibly be dub-con if you squint? Because basher holds Jim down for a while? Idk, read at your own discretion.

The sheets on Jim’s bed are sinfully soft and cool against my bare skin as I slide between them.. I take inventory while he’s tucking Evelyn in.

I think I’m ready. I think. I’ve brushed my teeth, taken my little blue pill, had a three-minute shower just to get rid of the grime of the day. . . and now I’m just naked in another man’s bed. Waiting. 

I’m listening intently to everything he says to her. Listening for her cheerful answers. She only knows Daddy doesn’t feel well; she doesn’t seem to know that he’d been on the verge of a nervous breakdown earlier in the afternoon. 

My heart is like a jackhammer, pumping blood through me in violent shockwaves. The thought of Jim’s naked body pressed against me is not arousing. He’s not fit. Anisa wasn’t particularly trim herself, but somehow even that was attractive. I just really love the female form, I guess. Trim and bony, voluptuous and curvy . . . it all works for me. 

But Jim is . . . just pale and strangely built. He has toned arms but his core and pecs could do with some work. Saggy isn’t the right word, but tight definitely doesn’t come to mind either when I think of him shooting at me in his underwear. 

I grin at nothing. He doesn’t have to be built though. He has me. I can be the brawn for him . . . why would he bother with toning and training when I’ll always protect him? 

I find a lot of comfort in that thought. Jim’s physique doesn’t need altering because I’m his, and in that way, I’ve shaped him. I can appreciate that non-feminine body because I’ve had a hand in sculpting it. 

And. And he’s my Jim. I love him. 

I’m going to take care of him. 

I’m ashamed to say that while the nervousness remains, a warm feeling rises up in my tummy and chest. A cozy sort of feeling. Maybe not arousing but still satisfying. 

He waits outside the bedroom, staring at me. His face is unreadable. 

I pat the empty space beside me. “Come to bed.” 

He hesitates. I can’t explain it, but I instinctively know he’s debating apologizing. He doesn’t want to; he’s not actually sorry for the things he said, even if he didn’t mean them, but he recognizes that normal people apologize in these situations. 

I slide out of the bed. A weird feeling of sexual aggression bubbles up in my chest. I watch his eyes bounce about my body, trying to maintain eye contact while also studying everything below my neck. 

I don’t know what Jim’s type is, but I would imagine I’m it. His gaze lingers sometimes when I’m cutting the grass without a shirt or if I’m still in running shorts when he gets home from work. 

I smirk as he visibly swallows, eyes blacker than usual. I’ll admit, it’s nice to have his admiration. It makes me feel a little, I don’t know, sexier, I suppose. 

I approach him slowly and carefully in case I’ve misread him. My hindbrain is warning me to cover my dick in case he decides to attack. I don’t. I approach him buck naked with my arms loose at my sides. “Come to bed, James,” I say, raising my arms in invitation. 

He slides into my arms, his silk pyjamas slipping against my skin. It’s funny, he’s so close to me, leaning against me, but his arms don’t wrap around me. He takes a deep breath then relaxes against me. 

_Yes._ Warmth blooms across the surface of my skin. _I’m home._ It feels right even if the makeup of my being says it’s not. I feel like I could take down Mycroft Holmes right now. My Jim. 

My hands come to rest on his hips. I can feel the slim hip bones on the pads of my thumbs. I keep my hold on him loose; if he’s going to be here, it’s going to be of his own accord. His eyes are deadset on mine now. His expression is still unreadable, but his heart is pounding against my bare chest. 

Looking down at him, while he’s pressed against my chest like this, his cheeks tinged with pink, maybe he’s beautiful. Handsome? No, he’s beautiful. Not in a womanly way, but beautiful nonetheless. 

My Jim. 

Something in him snaps like a piano wire. Suddenly, he’s on me, he’s surrounding me, his arms clasping tightly around my torso, standing on his tiptoes to kiss me. His mouth is pressed so firmly against mine his stubble is tickling my cheeks. It’s instinct, I guess, that causes me lift him up, to grip his thighs so that his legs are wrapped around my waist. It all happens so fast. I’m holding him tightly against me, my tongue playing against his. He feels frantic against me. His muscles are tight and his movements are quick and darting. 

He breaks the kiss for only a moment to say, “I’m sorry” and then he’s back at it. 

I give him what I hope is a comforting squeeze. I try to quiet his frantic energy with my own calm energy. There’s plenty of time for everything. Plenty of time to just enjoy this. I laugh into his mouth, then pull away. “No you’re not,” I smile at him. 

He snarls at me. “Yes I am, idiot.” 

“No, you’re not sorry. You didn’t _mean_ what you said, but you’re not sorry that you said it.” I keep my tone light. I’m not fishing for sincerity; I’m telling him that I understand him, at least somewhat. He half-smiles, and I use the opportunity to kiss him again, setting a slower pace. He closes his eyes, following my lead. 

“So,” I say as I trail little kisses from his mouth to his ear, “can I take you to bed?” 

He shivers against me. His cock presses against my torso through his pyjamas. I think maybe I can hear a small whimper, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking. 

“Is that a yes?” 

His teeth sink into my shoulder, just hard and long enough to hurt. “Don’t be dim, Basher. It’s not attractive.” 

I give his ear a warning nip. “You’re going to have to play nice, boss. It’s my first time.” 

He shivers again, his cock twitching against me. I chuckle. This feels so easy. Having him like this feels so good and comfortable. And he’s so responsive . . . and I find that I want to explore that. I want to see how my Jim responds. I want to make my Jim feel good. 

It’s sickeningly sentimental, and I don’t even care. 

I carry him over to the bed and lay him down. He looks vulnerable, his eyes a little cloudy and his lips wet and red and his limbs sprawled on the bed, and it triggers a predatory instinct in me. Or maybe a protective instinct, I’m not sure. Either way, this is mine. 

I climb on top of him, boxing him in with my body, leaning my face against his so I can feel his hot breath quietly burst in and out of his mouth. I spread one of his thighs wider so I can feel his erection more fully. I can’t say the thought of it against me is arousing, but the thought of it existing because of what I’m doing to him is very arousing. 

I laugh at his eagerness when he ruts against me. “Play nice,” I tell him again. “I’m going to take good care of you, Jim.” 

He groans, covering his face. “Fuck, that’s such a stupid thing to say.” 

“You’re the one that’s blushing.” I smirk at him, grinding my own growing erection against thigh. “Feeling a bit bashful, are we?” 

“Fuck you, Sebastian,” he growls. “Just get on with it!” 

I kiss him again, slow and soft, the way I used to kiss Anisa when I was really drunk and feeling exceptionally sentimental and desperate for her love. “No rush, boss. Plenty of time.” 

“Rush!” he orders. “I’ve got things to do!” 

His pleas are less than convincing. And even if they were, I wouldn’t obey them. This is mine. My Jim. My chance to take care of him. 

I move even slower, taking one of his hands into my own. “I’ve gotta warm up, boss.” I slip my free hand beneath his shirt, mapping out the skin of his back against my palm. I smirk at him again. “Recon mission.” 

He slaps me with his free hand. I growl and pin his wrist over his head. “No,” I warn him. He struggles against my grip, but I don’t let up. I slide his shirt up to his neck, exposing the white expanse of his torso. This really is new territory for me, and I don’t go into anything without a good grasp of my surroundings. 

I fold the hand I’m holding in with the hand over his head so that he can’t lash out again. His wrists are trapped in one hand. With my newly freed hand, I ghost over his chest, down to his stomach, over the clothed erection between his legs. Gooseflesh pops up across his body. I run my hand over him again, more firmly this time, focused solely on the exposed parts of him. I stroke beneath the crumpled up shirt at his neck, feeling the muscles and tendons, fascinated by his rapid pulse. 

I turn my exploration downward, pressing my palm flat against his chest. This where it gets tricky. This is where the differences start to really get to me. I like breasts, regardless of size. I like the fullness of them, the weight of them. I like the sensation of nipples hardening against my tongue. I like the breathy sounds elicited from my bedmates when I discover how best to handle their breasts. 

Jim doesn’t have breasts. I mean, biologically, I suppose he does, but it’s not the same. The tissue, the make-up, it’s not the same. Jim’s nipples are smaller, too, and I have very little understanding of how nerve endings in erogenous zones work. Would he even enjoy having them touched? I mean, it never really did a lot for me when Anisa licked mine. 

Oh well. You’ll never know if you never try. 

I thumb over a nipple, watching his face for feedback. He gasps, but I’m not sure how to interpret it. “Good?” 

“Let my hands go and I’ll tell you,” he answers, trying in vain to sound scary. 

“No, you’re still slap-happy. I can see it in your eyes.” I kiss him again, still soft and slow and gentle, silently urging him to be patient, to relax. I scrape my thumbnail lightly over the little nub on his chest. He arches into it, trying to suppress his groan. I can’t not smirk at that. “Does that feel good, Jimmy?” 

He glares up at me. “Stop teasing me, Sebastian.” 

“I’m not teasing.” I nip playfully at his neck. “I’m flirting.” 

He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t seem to understand that his sass isn’t fooling anyone. He wants to be here, like this, and he’s enjoying it. He’s enjoying being pursued, persuaded. “Seems a bit late since you’re already in _my_ bed.” 

I thumb over his nipple again. “You’re a mouthy little fucker.” 

“You’re going so _sloooow_ ,” he whines. 

I cup his cheek, locking my eyes on his. “I’m just enjoying you.” I nudge his cock with my knee. “I’m enjoying this.” I move downward to lave the other nipple with my tongue, slow and hard, pleased to feel it respond beneath my ministrations. He starts to say something but I squeeze the hardening nipple between my teeth before he can form his first word. “Don’t stress, sweetheart. I told you, I’m going to take care of you.” 

“You’re doing a bang-up job,” he mocks me. 

“I am because I’m doing it my way, not your way. That’s why you’re having a fit about it; you’re not giving the orders.” 

Whatever snarky comment he was about to shoot back is cut off with a loud moan when I suck his nipple into my mouth and begin a rather vicious onslaught with my teeth and tongue. Truth be told, it’s what I know. It’s what I’m comfortable with. If Jim’s got sensitive nips, then I’m gonna toy with them. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and nipple play is one of my tricks. 

When I feel a wet spot against my stomach, when his precum has bled through his pants and pyjama bottoms, I switch to the other nipple, and he makes this frustrated broken sound that goes straight to my cock. I’m a little squicked by another man’s fluids, especially as they are being rubbed against my abdomen, but I’m able to overlook it. I quite like the effect I’m having on the criminal mastermind. 

His hands over his head still struggle against my grip, but I keep him steady. He writhes and wriggles beneath me, trying to get away from the stimulation at his chest. I stay there awhile, though, because the more I think about his cock, the more repulsed I feel. I have no idea what to do with a cock. I know what to do with _mine_ , but his. . . 

I guess I should say I know _what_ to do, but not _how_ to do it. 

And I’m not going anywhere near his anus tonight. And he’s not going anywhere near mine. Maybe some day in the very distant future, but currently, I’m just not at a place that my heterosexuality can tolerate that. 

Where I’m at right now, this is good. This is tolerable. Pleasing, even. Hell, I’ve got a hard-on, which is more success than I was planning on for tonight. 

His hips are rutting against me, his cock jutting against my stomach, leaving trails of dampness in its wake. For me, it’s new, it’s different, very unnatural, but I did this to him. I’m doing this to him. I’m making him desperate and needy and _wet_. 

_This is mine. My Jim._

And then, he says my name, so soft and broken and full of rage, I can’t deny him anymore. 

I move from his chest to his mouth, kissing and licking at his lips. He’s been panting so much that his lips are dry. I kiss down his neck, a distraction for myself more than it is foreplay. I release his hands and slide my own into the band of his pyjama bottoms, ready to remove them. He stops me though, gripping my wrists and bringing them to his neck. “Choke me,” he breathes. 

I kiss him again. “Not tonight, sweetheart.” 

“Do it!” he orders, reaching to pull my hair. 

So, clearly, my little maniac Jim can’t be trusted to have his hands. “I’m not going to choke you. Or hurt you. At all. Not tonight.” I pin his hands above his head. “I’m going to take care of you.” 

He lets out a roar of frustration. I can’t help but laugh, running my tongue along his bottom lip, a vain attempt to soothe him. “Shh, don’t wake Evelyn.” 

“Jesus, please,” he whines, “please, Basher, I need it.” 

I shush him, nuzzling against his neck. “We’re going to fuck like a proper couple. As soon as I figure out how a proper couple does this without a cunt.” 

His body pulls tight, fury evident in his eyes. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!” he demands. 

I pet his chest, shushing him again. “I am kidding, sweetheart. I’ve done my research. I had to do _something_ during that godawful movie.” My gaze slopes down his body, down to the bulge between his legs. “I wanted to do this right.” 

“Because you fucked up the incident at St. Bart’s?” he smarts off. 

Fine. He wants to be that way, he can. I roll off of him, sitting cross-legged beside him. I cross my arms. I’m not mad, but he’s not going to behave like that when I’m trying to be a decent boyfriend. (Jesus, boyfriend? No. . . Jim doesn’t have boyfriends. I don’t have boyfriends.) My voice and expression even, I ask, “Why are you being like this?” 

He continues to lay there, not bothering to move his newly released wrists. “Baaaaashh,” he whines, closing his eyes tight. He kicks his feet like a child throwing a tantrum. 

My hand on his chest, I press him down into the bed until he’s still. He keeps his eyes closed. “Am I doing something wrong?” I ask gently, drawing small circles below his sternum with my fingertips. “You’ll have to tell me, Jim, because I don’t know.” 

“Choke me,” he breathes. 

I shake my head. “Not happening.” 

“Basher, choke me. _Hurt_ me! Come on, you’re a fucking soldier, make me feeeeel it.” He looks up at me with wild eyes. 

“I think I did enough of that this afternoon during your little hissy fit.” My fingers trace over a series of stitches on his forearm. “And you’ve done pretty decent job of shredding yourself for today.” I trail down his soft skin, over the nearly completely hidden rib bones, to the band of his bottoms. I slip my index between the band and his skin, stroking the small exposed area. “Besides, it’s my job to protect you.” I deepen my voice, leaning over him, like a lion preparing to devour prey. “How on earth could I possibly find any enjoyment in hurting you?” 

He groans again, gripping my face tightly and pulling me in for another frantic kiss, urging me to kiss him harder, quicker. I don’t. I withdraw until our lips are barely touching, just enough that he can’t crane his neck anymore to kiss me. “I’m going to take care of you, James.” I dip down for a short kiss. “I’m going to remove these.” The elastic band of his pants pops against his skin as I release it. “And then you’re going to spread your legs nice and wide for me, yeah?” Another peck on his lips. “And, if you’re wet enough, if you’re hard enough, and it certainly seems that you are, I’ll hold us together and grind against you. All you have to do is let me.” 

See, I’m an idiot and I completely forgot to have lubricant handy. It’s just generally not something I have on hand. So, pre-ejaculate and seminal fluid are going to have to do. God, I just hope I can stomach it. For Jim. 

He continues to pout, but he stills his limbs and shuts his eyes. 

With a smile, I lean down to kiss his lips again. Then his chin. Down his neck. To those now somewhat swollen nipples. He yelps when I nip at them, careful to toe the line between “tease with teeth” and “bite.” I let my tongue linger, getting used to the taste of him. He still smells faintly of betadine and sterilized needles, and he tastes of mild soap and salt. 

“Stop teasing me!” he growls again. 

“I’m not. I just like them.” I give him a wink before mouthing down his stomach. 

“Good Lord, I thought I was going to have to remove my pants _myself_!” he grumbles as I get closer to his cock. 

I laugh, situating myself between his legs to remove his pyjamas, and then his pants. Then I step off the bed to review my work. 

At this distance, I can see that Jim’s entire body is flushed pink. His cock is straining against his gut. God, penises are weird. Something sort of, I don’t know, alien about them. I think I’d hoped that maybe he would be circumcised, so I wouldn’t have to deal with any smegma build-up or anything like that. Seems cleaner, I suppose. But he’s uncut, and his foreskin retracted behind the glans. Looks like he’s about to pop, poor man. His cock is straining and glistening with precum and it’s an angry, bright red. 

He spreads his thighs just like I asked, and he begins to jerk himself off, his pace obscenely fast. It’s gotta be for show; there’s no way he’s that desperate. 

I reach for his wrists, pulling them down to his sides, and he whines again, grinding his hips against nothing. “Hey, hey,” I chide, “no cheating, Jim.” 

Once more, he tries to wriggle out of my grip, but it’s a half-hearted effort. 

“Take a deep breath. Just relax.” I think I’m speaking more to myself than to Jim now. I know what I need to do; I know what he needs me to do. 

But honestly, I never thought I would ever touch anyone’s penis besides my own in my whole entire life. And it’s just so wet and sticky right now. I imagine fondling Jim’s dick would be like holding a joystick covered in dried Coke. 

I promised. I promised I would take care of him. And he certainly looks frustrated at the moment, with his eyebrows knitted above the bridge of his nose and his jaw clenched like a bear trap. 

After releasing one of his wrists to free up my hand, I thumb over the underside of his cock, barely grazing over the vein. The warm, viscous fluid leaking from the tip sticks to the pad of my thumb. It’s not my favorite sensation, but I can suppress the shudder of disgust. Jim thrusts his hips upwards again, searching for friction. Impatience is painted on his face. 

I bite the bullet and curl my fist around him, sliding slowly up and down the shaft, spreading wetness around the hot, red skin. 

Jim humps into my fist, absolutely refusing to settle for my slower, gentler pace. God, for someone who supposedly loves chaos, he’s such a control freak. I allow him a few more thrusts, rolling my eyes, and then I pounce on him, straddling his thighs, using my weight to stop him humping like a dog. He grabs for my throat, livid that I’m denying him what he wants. I catch his hand and once more pin his hands over his head. “Jim, you’re going to have to be patient,” I tell him a little more sternly. “I swear it’ll be worth your while.” 

He sighs his disbelief, rolling his eyes. “You’re not that amazing, Tiger.” 

Once I’m confident that I can hold his wrists with one hand and that my weight will keep the horny bastard’s hips in place, I stroke his cheek, hooking his attention back on me. “Just like I don’t mean anything to you, right?” I’m smirking, I know I am. “Just like we’re just business associates?” 

His glare darkens. He thinks I’m trying to tease a confession out of him, but really I’m just flirting. I don’t expect any grandiose proclamations of love. Hell, I don’t even expect compliments. I just like getting under his skin. That’s how I’ve always showed affection. 

“I may not be _amazing_ , but I’m a pretty fast learner,” I tell him. My hand slides down his neck, over his chest, seeking out a nipple again to tease. He jolts when I start to work the sensitive skin there. “And I did my research on frottage. Might be a little clinical, kitten, how I do this, but I think you’ll be okay. Keep in mind, you’ve got the homefield advantage. Like I said, this is all new to me.” 

There’s a minute change in his position. His legs spread further apart, tilting his hips upward just a bit. Making himself more accessible. He swallows dryly. 

My free hand slides down over his soft middle to the hard flesh of his cock. He gasps, hips involuntarily seeking out more contact. I give him a squeeze, stroking him once, twice with my fist. 

Okay. Here we go. I take another deep breath. I’m doing this for Jim. My Jim. 

I position my hips over his, lining up the underside of my cock with his, ensuring that his frenulum is touching mine. A shudder, its origin not entirely in revulsion, courses through me, my cock hardening further against the dampness of his. I wrap my fist around both of us, pressing my flesh to his, so that I can feel his pulse, his heat, his desperation. 

This is mine. 

My hand glides _up _and _down_ the two erections straining against one another. Jim lets out a soft keening noise that makes me grin. I learn forward to kiss him, and when he seems calmer, less explosive, I begin thrusting against him, my cock slick and sliding against his. __

I don’t focus on the fact that it’s a dick I’m thrusting against--I focus on the sensation, the moisture and warmth on my cock. I focus on the sweet little gasps that are slipping from Jim’s mouth. I’m doing this to him. I’ve (at least temporarily) tamed the beast that is Jim Moriarty’s mania. 

I keep my thrusts slow and even, ripping every pitiful sound I can from my Jim. It’s not long before he’s wriggling against me, involuntarily this time, trying to get _more_. A faster pace, a tighter grip. . . 

“Please,” he asks, voice soft. It’s not a plea, nor is it a demand. His eyes are screwed shut. 

I grin at him, feeling pretty damn proud of myself. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Jim.” My thrusts quicken, and I tighten my grip on our cocks, swiping my thumb over the heads when they line up. “I’m all yours, boss. Whatever you want.” 

Jim releases this wanton, whorish moan that makes my smile widen. I crash my lips against his, my pace and lead more forceful now, harder, but still slow. He kisses me like he’s lost, like he’s just barely hanging onto reality. 

“And you’re all mine, Jim. My. Jim.” On the downward glide, I feel how his balls have tightened. 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” he pants, sounding very snarky for someone who is about to orgasm. 

“You do, Jim. You belong with me. With us.” 

“With and to are two very different prepositions, Bash--” I cut off his sass with twist of my wrist. He groans, trying to thrust against me again. 

“I’ll always take care of you, Jim. No matter what.” 

He babbles something about “sentiment” even as his body tightens in preparation for climax. I work my fist over us faster now, thrusting harder against his cock, my sac bumping his. This is mine. My Jim. 

He breathes out my name. And once more. I press soft, fast kisses to his face and neck, urging him to climax. Faster. Harder. Purposeful thrusts, teasing the head of his cock with my thumb, teasing his foreskin with my index finger, nipping at his chest. . . 

And all at once, his body is stretched taut, a silent cry on his lips as semen spurts over my first. I did this to him. I’m quite pleased with myself. 

He goes limp beneath me. I release his cock, and jerk myself off, coming over his stomach. It’s not the best orgasm I’ve ever had, but I’m so relieved that I managed it. I’m so glad that I’ve made Jim feel good, at least for a while. My Jim. 

I don’t think about the drying fluids on my dick. I don’t think about the fact that I just sucked on male nipples or the fact that my balls touched Jim’s. 

I think about the victory of it all. I managed to make him come and then myself. I maintained my erection throughout the coupling. I was aroused by Jim’s reactions. I can do this--I can successfully be in a fulfilling relationship with a man and not be weirded out by his masculinity. 

Maybe I am gay? 

I mean, I _really_ doubt it but the entirety of what it means to be human, to be involved with another human, it’s beyond me. I’m just a sniper. I don’t wax philosophic. 

I lay down beside him. I’m not eager to be touched at the moment. I’m also secretly glad that Jim is in the wet spot, and I’m not. 

I listen to his breath return to normal. 

He rolls over to stare at me. 

“What?” I ask, feeling somewhat invaded with those black eyes trained on me. 

“Did you take a pill?” 

For a split second, I think he means birth control. Then I realize what he means. “Uh, yeah,” I say sheepishly. “I did.” 

His face is unreadable again. “I’m simultaneously offended and flattered.” He rolls over, his back to me. 

“Is that it?” 

“I don’t do pillow talk, Basher. Now, go sleep in your bed.” 

“Hell, no.” I slip under the sheets and comforter. He doesn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments for +1 karma.


	15. The Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim blows up Basher's flat. Basher tries to kill Sherlock. Evelyn catches the apartment on fire. Then things get a little overly dramatic.

December 2013

“Did you blow up my flat?” I hiss into the mobile as I kick at the rubble on the streets. The emergency vehicles are mostly gone now, save for a few police cars and a few fire engines working to put out the last flickers of flame. 

Jim’s answer is sing-songy and cutesy. “Oooh, did something happen to your flat?” 

“Yes, my insane boyfriend from the looks of it.” 

“ _Boyfriend_? I didn’t realize this was _Dawson’s Creek_. _Partner_ sounds better..” 

“‘Partner’ suggests a well-adjusted and mature relationship. ‘Boyfriend’ allows for this sort of shit.” I should be mad. I really should, but it’s just so Jim of him, how can I? “You know, if you wanted me to move in, all you had to do was ask.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re practically living with me anyway.” 

“Then why’d you blow up my flat?” 

I hear him smack his lips. “Catharsis.” 

“How much of my stuff was still in there?” 

“What makes you think I had anything moved out?” 

Now that does make me angry. “Addison O’Neill,” I growl into the phone, not wanting to use his name just in case, “there were fucking antique rifles in there--from my great-grandfather. He hunted bloody elephants with them!” 

“Antiques are ridiculous,” he says lazily. “It’s just worshipping the past.” 

“I’m going to pour grape juice all over that Victorian fainting couch in your office.” 

“It’s Edwardian, and you’d best stay the hell away from it. Evelyn, don’t do that. Here, come talk to Papa.” 

“What’s she doing?” 

“Firing her water pistol at Father Alligator. Here she is.” 

“Papa, it’s snowing!” 

For Christmas, Jim’s rented a quaint little cabin in Connacht in the Nephin Beg Range. Jim’s funny about housing. Whereas Magnussen likes futuristic layouts, wide spaces, smooth surfaces and white walls, Jim’s always liked closed quarters with a few simple antiques, something homey and welcoming. I don’t know if that was the case before Evelyn, but I’ve been reading about how people emulate their parents and their own upbringing. I wonder if he’s recreating environments for her in the way he chooses housing. 

Maybe he just likes cozy spaces. 

“Is it?” I ask, feigning surprise. 

“Yes! We’re gonna build a snowman when you get back!” 

Please, God, no, I hate the cold so much. “That sounds fantastic if I can make it back up the mountain.” 

“But you’ll be here for Christmas, right?” She pronounces it “Kissmas.” My heart is actually melting in my chest. I can only imagine what liquid heart does to the lungs. 

“Yup.” 

“It’s eight days ‘til Christmas,” she tells me in a warning. 

“Yes, and I’ll be there,” I assure her. 

“If you’re not, Daddy’s gonna kick yer ass.” 

I blink stupidly, unsure where that Texas twang came from and why she thinks for a minute that Jim could kick my arse. I hear Jim fussing in the background, telling her not to say things like that and not to say things like _that_. Then she’s bickering with him as he wrestles the phone from her and sends her to her room. 

“We do not slam doors like that, madam!” Jim shouts. “She’s turning into a nightmare!” 

“You’re gonna kick my ass?” I ask, putting on a (probably terrible) American accent. 

“I have no idea where she heard that. God, this is my punishment for letting her spend the night at the Baptist lesbians’.” 

“It’s probably just the jetlag and being away from home. You said it yourself that she doesn’t do well when her schedule is disrupted. I’ve been reading about kids with autism--” 

“Basher,” he sighs, “she’s not autistic. She’s just an anxious child.” 

“I don’t think it would hurt--I mean, she’s already reading, maybe she’s like that Rainman guy.” 

I can practically hear Jim rolling his eyes. “Leave the medical and psychological aspects of parenting to me, Bash. And stop reading WebMD.” 

“No offense, Jim, but you’re not exactly the posterboy for good mental health.” 

There’s a long pause. I check the screen to make sure he hasn’t disconnected. “She’s _fine_. She’s very communicative and responds to external stimuli appropriately. She maintains eye contact, she’s not opposed to touch, she’s not repetitive in her movements or phrases. It’s just anxiety. Children like routine as it is; she just needs it more because her early life was so chaotic.” 

“So, how are you doing?” 

He groans into the phone. “I’m finished with this asinine conversation.” 

“Jim, I mean it,” I cut him off. “Are you okay?” 

“I haven’t shattered the windows in the cabin and tried to claw out my eyes, so yes,” he says mildly. 

“You’ll call me if things, you know, get out of control?” 

I have to pull the mobile away from my ear as he roars like an annoyed adolescent into the speaker. “Yes, gawd, Sebastian!” 

“Hey, don’t bitch at me; I worry about you.” 

He’s silent again. I check the screen again. He hasn’t hung up. “I’m fine. Just hurry home. Don’t forget the shopping.” 

_Click._

~~

I’ve been to 221-B Baker Street before. I’ve been inside it before, lacing it with recording devices and explosives, leaving shoes in 221-C because the Prof is a madman. Still, it’s weird to stand before Speedy’s, knowing that for two years the flat was empty, that the Consulting Detective who is just as mad as the Professor is actually still alive. I wonder how much of the flat has changed. Probably nothing. 

My hope is that Mycroft Holmes and his Diogenes bitches are dealing with the situation in Syria and the growing unrest in Serbia--too busy to spy on little brother Holmes. I think I’ll have at least an hour or so. I may have to bypass Christmas with the family--holy fuck, I have a family--and hightail it back to Texas. Or maybe India. 

I doubt Jim would move to India for me. Selfish prick. 

Nonetheless, this needs to be done. I enter the building across the street from Holmes’ flat. I can off a shot on the third floor that will make the ballistics read like it came from the fourth--that should throw Mycy off my scent for awhile. Besides, I’m sure I’m not the only one who wants to murder Sherlock Holmes. 

To my absolute astonishment, my boss, Charles Augustus Magnussen is sitting in the lobby, henchman-less, cleaning his glasses. My heart stops. So much for visiting his brother in Denmark. . . 

“Hello, little tiger.” He rises to his feet, offering his hand. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, shall we?” 

I hesitate. I hate fucking touching him--he’s so sweaty, and I feel like I can never wash his residue completely off my hands. He always smells faintly of mildew, like he spends all of his time in a damp library, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t. There’s something wrong with him, I’m sure of it. Supernaturally wrong. 

Still, he pays my bills. He doesn’t trust me to work as his bodyguard anymore, but he does send me off to intimidate and murder people. 

I take his hand, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it. He doesn’t let go though. He just looks down at me with this shark-like grin, tugging lightly at my wrist to bring me closer. “I have work to do.” I can’t help but pull away from him, get my body as far from his as is polite. 

“Ah, that is where you’re wrong, Sebastian.” He grips the back of my neck, too tight to be friendly, and steers me towards the door. “You work for me, and I have assigned you nothing, and you know that I don’t allow for freelancing.” 

“This doesn’t concern you.” I try to shrug him off, but he refuses to let go. 

“Oh, it very much concerns me. You are targeting the beloved brother of a very dear colleague, and I simply cannot have that,” he says, feigning sympathy for his very dear colleague. He clucks his tongue, continuing the charade. “Not at Christmas.” 

Well then. 

Is he fucking with me? Mycroft Holmes? Mycroft Holmes is his very dear colleague? That can’t possibly be true. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I refuse to budge. I’m not exiting this building until the addict detective across the street is dead. 

“You will walk with me, Sebastian,” he orders, “because I have quite a lot of information that could be used against you. And your little family is very close to Jacques. Did you know he’s celebrating his own holiday just a few kilometers from dear Jim’s cabin? Wouldn’t it be a tragedy should Jacques pay a little visit to the man who orchestrated his mother’s death? Tsk, tsk.” 

I let myself be guided out the door back onto Baker Street. A group of five or six adolescents are tying balloons and flowers to the railing in front of the door of 221-B. Still welcoming home the little bitch after a month. Fuckers. 

Mags leads me to a white Jaguar down the street. He tosses the keys to me. I toss them back. “I’m not your valet.” 

His answer is simple. “You are whatever I tell you you are. Now, please, Sebastian, be a good boy and do as I say.” 

He makes a few phone calls while I drive, motioning where to turn and which lane to be in. I hear Janine’s voice--she’s remarkably perky with him, going so far as to tease him and call him a “pervy old man” in her flirtatious way. Mags seems unbothered. 

I hate driving in London. We end up in Greenwich at a bistro that is literally a kilometer from Anisa’s flat. There’s a weird pang in my chest when I see the pink shutters that mark her window. I stare at it. Hoping for a glimpse? Hoping that maybe she misses me? 

“Ah, poor Sebastian. Fear not, Anisa Shakib had no trouble filling your timeslot.” I want to punch that fucking grin off his goddamn face. 

He encourages me to order something, “my treat,” but I’m too disgusted and anxious to eat. After the server disappears, I lean in close. “This isn’t necessary. You don’t like me; I don’t like you. Tell me what you want to tell me, and we can get as far away from each other as is geographically possible.” 

He frowns, his expression passing for hurt. “Dear, dear. I quite like you a lot, Colonel. You’re a great deal of fun. I admire your work, I appreciate your discretion--” 

“Fine. You like making me sweat. Why am I here?” 

“I suppose James didn’t adjust well to the news that Sherlock Holmes lives.” I don’t answer. He raises his eyebrows, his smile reduced to a near hidden smirk. “That’s why you intend to assassinate the younger Holmes. Engagement present?” He pauses again, baiting me. “His heart, I think. Bringing Mr. Moriarty the heart of Sherlock Holmes would certainly appeal to the former’s flair for theatrics.” He leans in close. “I bet he’d even suck your cock if you presented him with such a gift. He’s quite good at it.” 

My stomach lurches. Magnussen must read my disgust because he continues in a delighted tone. 

“He could almost pass for a victim, the way he chokes around an erection. He so loves to be choked. He’s particularly beautiful when he looks up at you with tears in those large black eyes. But that’s not how you like to play, is it, tiger? That’s why he’s not brought you back to his bed since your first little foray.” 

He sits back, watching the effects of his words crashing around me. 

I swallow my pride and my temper. I keep my face calm and even. I hope. Magnussen remains silent, continuing to watch me suffer through the questions blazing through my brain. _Has he slept with Jim? Has he been watching us? Is that why Jim hasn’t expressed any interest in so much as a snuggle since we slept together? Has he hurt my Jim?_

When I’m virtually buzzing with curiosity and fury, he speaks up. “No matter. You won’t be seeing James Moriarty like that tonight anyway since you will avoid Sherlock Holmes like the plague.” 

I snort. “Says who? You?” 

His face darkens. “As I’ve said before, I don’t allow for moonlighting. You may not kill anyone without my express permission and orders, first and foremost.” 

I cut him off. “I’m not doing it for pay.” 

“No, you’re doing it for love--but either way, I won’t permit it. Think of it like a publishing contract. You may decide you want to publish elsewhere, but I’ve already got the right to your series. Do you understand? Your abilities belong to me, and I will put the lot of you--James, Evelyn, yourself--down like rabid dogs if those abilities are misused.” He says it so simply, so calmly, like he’s simply mentioning the decor of the bistro. 

“Furthermore,” he continues, “not that I owe you an explanation, but Mycroft Holmes and myself enjoy a symbiotic relationship. As such, the elder Holmes mourning his brother’s death over Christmas would be detrimental to our current endeavours.” 

His voice lowers and his face loses its calm. He looks positively predatory with his teeth bared in what was a smile in shape only and his shoulders raised to appear bigger. It’s the first time I ever consider the man to be physically and immediately dangerous. He’s a strong man--tall and lean but powerful, I realize. I’m not so sure I could take him. “Lastly, and I want to be perfectly clear about this, William Sherlock Scott Holmes is _mine_ now. When the time is right, the rotten little cunt will be _mine_ to slaughter, do you understand?” 

I’m frozen, stunned by the sudden change in his demeanor. 

“Do you understand, Sebastian?” he repeats, voice throaty and deep, his entire being morphed into something distinctly beastly. 

I’m afraid. 

“Because if you don’t--” 

“Yes.” I don’t want to know what the consequences are. I don’t want to know what he would do to my little girl or to my Jim. God, Jim’s obsession has made him so vulnerable. He’s made _us_ so vulnerable. “Yes, I understand.” 

The monster that resides within Magnussen vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. He leans back in his chair, looking mild as ever. “ _Underfold_! The tiger can be reasoned with. You’re not half as dumb as you appear, Moran.” 

I roll my eyes, pretending that I’m not shaken by his unspoken threats. It’s time to go. I need to get back to my family. I need to make sure that Magnussen’s henchman isn’t watching them, isn’t plotting their deaths. Magnussen stops me when I stand up. 

“Ah, ah, you’ve not been dismissed. Sit.” 

We sit in silence while he eats. He smiles cordially at me, taunting me. When I pull out my phone to text Jim, he tells me I’m being rude and waits until I’ve pocketed the device to continue his meal. 

I’ve missed my flight back to Ireland when Mags finally sets his fork down and says, “You want to know if I’ve had your Jim.” 

I don’t confirm or deny. 

“When he was much younger, yes.” 

My stomach turns again. 

“He came to me as an intern in Denmark. So eager to learn. Boys like him, they aren’t my type, you see, but he wanted so badly to be choked, to have his throat fucked raw, to be broken, and how could I deny my star pupil?” 

My teeth ache at how tightly my jaw is clenched. I will fucking kill this man. As soon as I get Evelyn and Jim somewhere safe, I will kill Magnussen. 

“It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Sexual violence?” 

I look away. Blood is pounding in my ears. 

“Most abused children grow up to be abusers. Based on what Augustus did to you, do you ever worry what you’ll do to Evelyn? Maybe that’s why you avoid even consensual sexual violence--you’re afraid it will feel too good to complete the cycle.” 

I start to lunge at him, but he holds up his phone. “Let’s give Jacques a call, shall we?” 

I take a seat, defeated. “Please. Let me go to them. Please.” 

He feigns surprise. “You needn’t _beg_ , pussycat. I’m simply taking you out to dinner to thank you for all your hard work this year.” 

I inhale slowly. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me. . .” 

“Oh and Sebastian? Keep your Jim away from the Consulting Detective. I’ve absolutely no reason to keep him alive and well, so if he should upset my plans for Sherlock Holmes . . ..” He grins primly. “Well, you work for me. You know how I operate.” 

~~

The drive up Nephin in the snow is unbearable. I physically ached the entire time to hold my Jim and my sweet little Evelyn. I kept reminding myself to look out for a cabin that could be Jacques’ but I was too distracted. All I could think of was coming home to the dismembered bodies of my makeshift family. 

I’d performed that service before. Never at Christmas, because I’m romantic like that, but I’d definitely murdered families on their holidays. Never thought twice about it after confession. 

The cabin is warm and dimly lit with bright orange flames roaring in the fireplace. Multi-colored lights from the Christmas tree light up the adjacent walls. The smells of cinnamon and pine tree are heavy in the air. I hear vague conversation coming from the kitchen. 

“Jim?” I call. The apprehension is almost too much. Jim was right; love is paralyzing. In this moment, my family is both alive and dead, and there’s a comfort in that. There’s hope in that thought. But when I get an answer--and that answer could be that they’re dead--that liminality, that hope won’t exist anymore. I don’t want to let it go. 

Mustering up the last bit of courage for the evening, I call again. “James?!” 

He rounds the corner from the kitchen, white powder on his forehead and annoyance in his expression. “Sebastian?” he mimics. 

I don’t care. I’m numb with relief. I rush to him, pulling him tight against me, pressing his face against my neck, just to feel him. My acerbic, homicidal, obsessive Jim who reeks of gingerbread men and hot chocolate. In this moment, I want desperately to undo whatever Magnussen did to him--whatever was done to him to fuck him up to the point that he enjoys being choked and beaten in moments of intimacy. I want to take him to his bedroom--our bedroom--and kiss him and pet him and show him how _painfully good_ gentleness and affection can feel. 

He hums into the touch. “A bit aggressive for a ‘welcome home’ embrace.” He pulls back to study my face. I don’t know what he reads on it, but he leans up to plant a chaste kiss against my mouth. “We’ve been learning about skin pigmentation--” He starts toward the kitchen as he speaks, but I don’t let him go, drawing him back to me. 

Whatever questions he has are cut off by my mouth against his. I don’t realize that I’m gripping his bum until his hips are pressed firmly against mine. His skin feels so good. He tastes so good. My Jim. He’s beautiful. 

“Papa, stop!” Evelyn demands from the threshold of the kitchen. “We’re baking!” 

I kiss Jim once more, releasing him to kneel and hold out my arms. “Come here, baby girl.” 

She gives me an exasperated look putting her hands on her hips. “Papa! I am baking!” 

“I need a hug so bad, Evey. Please?” 

She sighs dramatically. She dusts her powdery fingers on her apron and then runs to my arms. I lift her up and swing her around, reveling in the sound of her giggles. My darling little lady. I squeeze her tight, kissing her face again and again and again until she shrieks. “Your beard tickles!” 

“I don’t have a beard, you goose.” 

“It’s short!” 

I run my hand over my face. “It’s just stubble.” I plant a big, wet, loud smooch to her forehead and she laughs, returning the favor with her own sloppy, chocolatey kiss. 

“Yuck.” I wipe the remnants of her kiss off my cheek. “What have you gotten into, little girl?” 

She gives me a pointed-look. “I’m not little. I am big.” 

“Okay, what have you gotten into, big girl?” 

Jim and Evelyn exchange conspiratorial looks. “Noffin.” She wiggles out of my arms and lands on her feet. “I hafta bake.” She skitters into the kitchen. 

“She’s not actually baking. She’s just eating all the chocolate chips.” Jim folds his arms over his chest. “Did you get the shopping?” 

“No, I forgot.” 

He groans. “Jesus Christ, I ask you to do one thing . . . fucking Englishman.” He moves toward the kitchen again but doesn’t make it far before I grab his hand. “For fuck’s sake, what do you want?” 

“You.” I tug him back against my chest, holding him firmly in place. I nuzzle into his neck. 

Jim, being the clever fucker that he is, softly asks, “Someone watching the cabin?” 

“Not watching, I don’t think. But close by.” 

“Whose?” 

“Mags.” 

Jim stiffens, a confused frown on his face. “Why does he care what I do on holiday?” He squirms out of my grip again, staring me down. “What’d you do?” 

“I . . . I went to kill Sherlock.” He absently twists his head back and forth, and I can see the shadow of obsession flutter in his eyes. He’s wearing a stupid Christmas jumper and has flour all over his forehead, but for the moment, he looks like pure Moriarty, expensive suit and slicked back hair. He doesn’t interrupt though. “But Magnussen caught me. He said Holmes was his. Apparently he has a working relationship with Mycroft Holmes?” 

Jim nods curtly. 

“You knew?” 

His answer seems almost robotic. “No, but I’m not surprised. If you control the media, you control the population, and what else does the Ice Man need but control of his citizens?” 

“Magnussen says we both have to steer clear of him.” 

Jim’s eyes light up at the challenge. “Oh really?” 

“Jim, I’m serious. Magnussen will kill you.” 

He scoffs. “I’m not afraid of CAM.” 

“I know you’re not. But you forget you don’t have the resources you used to. You don’t have spies and snipers all over everywhere. You don’t have your network.” I’m disturbed by the growing amusement on his face. “Jim, he will kill you.” 

His eyes glaze over. His voice is hollow. “I’m not afraid of dying.” 

“He’ll kill Evelyn, Jim.” 

Jim blinks, the haze of obsession dissipating. He licks his lips and cracks his neck. His eyes bounce back and forth, searching for something that only he can see or know. After a period, he stops and looks me dead in the eyes. “Shit,” he breathes. The rage builds and his white face fills with blood. “ _FUCK_.” He reaches for a lamp, but I’m faster. 

Struggle as he might, he can’t escape the hold I’ve got him in. He tries to headbutt me, but he’s too short. Every fiber of his being is humming with fury. I can feel the pounding of his heart through his back and the heat radiating off of him. I grip him tighter, covering his mouth as he begins to scream. 

“You’re going to scare Evelyn, Jim.” 

He manages to move his head enough to snarl, “I fucking hate her! She’s ruined _everything_.” 

My first impulse is to bash his head against the wall. I don’t though; I just cover his mouth, drag him into the bedroom and shut the door, hoping Evelyn doesn’t eat all the chocolate chips or burn down the house with the oven while Jim weathers his temper tantrum. 

“Jim, she never asked you to give up the life you had. You made that choice.” 

He manages to jerk out of reach and begins pacing the floor, sweat beading on his forehead. “I did this for her!” he shouts, the entirety of his body leaning into his exclamation. “And now I’m fucking trapped!” 

I grab his face, forcing him to look up at me. Jesus, his eyes are wild. “James, you can have your little fit, but you will keep your voice down or I will chain you down and gag you.” 

He swats my hand away, glaring at me with insane, glossed over eyes and lets out this primitive, guttural roar. His fingers tangle in his hair as he continues to pace back and forth. “We’ll find someone. I’ll find someone. Someone will kill him. SOMEONE WILL KILL HIM.” 

“Yes, Magnussen will, just be patient.” 

He cackles hysterically. “Be patient? Be patient, he says. TWO YEARS. I lost two years in which I could’ve been hunting him. He’s been ALIVE FOR TWO YEARS. My PATIENCE IS GONE, MORAN.” Hot tears are streaming down his face as he pants. 

The doorknob rolls back and forth halfway, the lock keeping it from opening. “Daddy? What’s going on? Are you okay?” Evelyn’s timid voice carries through the wood of the door. 

Jim stops, the blood draining from his face. It’s like someone’s doused him with ice water. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, stunned. 

I crack the door open to answer her. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart. We’ll be out in a moment. Daddy hurt himself putting your present together.” 

She scowls. “Why is he putting it together when Father Christmas’s supposed to do that?” 

“He’s not real,” her Daddy reminds her, his voice remarkably normal. 

“Yes, he is!” she shouts back. “He just never brought you anything because you were bad!” 

“You’re not wrong,” he says absently. He flops onto the bed, pale as the snow falling from the sky, staring at the ceiling, unblinking. He looks like a corpse. 

“Go finish baking,” I shoo Evelyn away before closing and locking the door. I lean against the bedpost, eying the lifeless bulk on the bed. I don’t think he’s even breathing. 

“Do you ever feel that if you could just rip your chest apart, if you could just release some of the chemicals your brain translates as emotion, you’d be all right?” he asks, his voice empty and hollow again. 

“Can’t say that I do.” 

“I came here to kill him, you know. For the New Year, not Christmas,” he clarifies. He lolls his head to face me. “I did actually want to spend Christmas with Evelyn.” 

“Wouldn’t it have been better to spend Christmas in London, then?” 

“No. He’ll be in Galway for a case during the New Year. A grandmother wants to know which of her grandchildren unsuccessfully poisoned her.” 

“Have you been reading his email?” 

He nods. 

“Well, you’re going to have to stop.” 

His gaze rolls up to the ceiling and stays there. 

“I mean it, sweetheart. You can’t get near him, and you can’t keep torturing yourself. Let him go for now. We’ll get to him one day.” 

“Eurus said she’d kill him first. I told her that was impossible. Looks like I was wrong.” 

“Eurus?” 

He waves his arm theatrically. “The long-lost Girl One. Sherlock has _four_ Girl Ones. Hooper, Adler, Rosamund, and Eurus.” He sits up, lost in thought. “We should get a Girl One.” 

“No.” 

“I like symmetry.” 

“Jim, Sherlock can’t be your symmetry. You’ve got to exist outside of him. You have a life that is completely separate from him. From all the Holmes offspring.” 

He shuts his eyes. “Existing is so boring,” he whispers. 

My blood runs cold. “Evelyn’s not boring.” 

A shadow of a smile creeps across his face. “No. She’s not boring.” 

Sensing that he’s more subdued, I take a seat beside him on the bed. To my surprise, he situates himself to rest his head on my knee. With some hesitation, I run my fingers over his greying temples. He frowns, batting my hand away. “Don’t. I know, I need a touch-up.” 

I rest my hand on his chest. “I like it, actually.” 

“Makes me look old,” he grumbles. 

“Older. Not old. You’ve got a very young face, boss.” 

“Considering you’re mostly straight, I’ll disregard your opinion entirely.” 

I chuckle, continuing to stroke his hair and the sides of his face. He fights to keep the KILL SHERLOCK impulse at bay, I can see that on his face. His eyes will twitch back and forth like he’s reading something, and then he’ll catch himself and screw his eyes shut. After probably ten minutes of this, he says, “Get the lorazepam. It’s in my cosmetics bag.” 

“You don’t think you can manage without it?” 

He shakes his head once. “It makes me dull. I need to be dull right now.” 

“If you can be good,” I tease, “I’ve got something else that might be more fun.” 

He searches my face, deducing what I’ve brought back to the cabin. I laugh when he glares at me. “You couldn’t get the roast and potatoes but you got whiskey? Basher, you goddamned idiot.” 

“How’d you know it was whiskey? I might’ve gotten marijuana.” 

“You haven’t used marijuana since your first tour of Iraq.” 

“So how’d you know it was whiskey?” 

“You don’t like bourbon or scotch, beer barely fazes you, and I’ve never known you to drink wine.” 

“I had prosecco with Anisa once.” 

“Even more of a reason to avoid it,” he spits. 

I’m actually touched by that comment. “Why? Were you jealous?” 

“I’m not jealous of a callgirl.” 

I lean down to kiss the tip of his nose. He swats me away again. “Get away from me. Go get the drugs.” 

“Let’s see how you feel after a few shots, eh?” He doesn’t answer so I take that as a yes. “Jim?” 

“What?” he whines, clearly annoyed with our interaction. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

“Has my disinterest ever stopped you before?” Nonetheless, he parts his lips, a sign that he’s expecting a kiss. 

“Let me phrase it this way. Do you want me to kiss you?” 

His eyes dart away. I can see a pink tinge brighten his cheeks. 

“Or maybe I’ll phrase it this way. Do you like it when I kiss you?” 

“Are you fishing for compliments?” 

“No. Just need to know where I stand.” 

We stare at each other for a long time. Finally, it gets to be too much and he groans. “You empty-headed waste of space!” He fists the collar of my coat and tries to pull me down. He’s not strong enough, though, and ends up pulling himself up to kiss me. 

It’s a frantic kiss, an outlet for his remaining obsessive energy. I don’t know if its his doing or mine, but suddenly he’s in my lap, his arms around my neck and mine around his waist. 

A surprised “uh-oh” from the kitchen separates us. The smoke detector begins its hellish serenade. “Daddy! Papa!” 

Jim is off the bed and out the door in record time. “Basher, get the extinguisher. Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot she was in the kitchen.” 

“We’re awesome dads.” 

“Get the fire extinguisher!” 

~~

Something’s wrong. Something’s changed. I let my eyes adjust to the dark room, counting the bodies in my bed. Evelyn is sprawled out in every direction, her foot buried beneath my back and her arms resting across the area that should be occupied by Jim. He’s not there, though. I shoot up, aware of the padding of barefeet across the cabin’s hardwood floors. 

“Jim?” 

No answer. 

I slide out of bed, careful to keep Evelyn’s foot covered and tiptoe out of the room. “Jim?” 

He’s standing in front of the back window, his back to me. A rush of icy wind tells me the window is open, and he’s just standing there in front of it in his thin silk pyjamas. I don’t know if he’s ignoring me or if he’s just too lost in his own head to hear me. I don’t think he’s a sleepwalker. 

I grab his robe from the bedroom. “All right, drama queen, if you’re gonna leave the window open, at least dress for the occasion.” I wrap the fluffy white robe around this shoulders. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. The chill is making his eyes red. 

“Jim, it’s time for bed.” 

My hand rests on the small of his back. Slowly, he rolls his head to look at me. “What did Magnussen tell you about me?” 

I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to answer that question. It infuriates me that anyone would ever do those sorts of things to my Jim, especially a sweaty creep like Mags. 

When I don’t answer, Jim rolls his head back to stare out the window. “I’m not a well man, Colonel.” 

I embrace him from behind, pulling his back against my chest so I can nuzzle at his neck. “S’all right, kitten.” 

“You want this to be enough. You want our lives to stay this way. You want to make love to me like a proper couple, want me to give up the man I’ve been chasing for six years, want me to fill the void of Anisa. It won’t ever be that way.” 

I kiss his temple. “That’s all right, too.” 

“You think it is because you’ve romanticized our cohabitation. You’ve idealized our relationship. You don’t live in reality, likely a remnant of always hoping for something better as a child. You wanted a real family and so you’ve projected that idea onto our situation.” 

I sigh heavily, trying not to be annoyed with the little nerd. “What are you getting at Jim?” 

“The truth.” 

I decide it’s best to placate him. “Fine, we’ve arrived at the truth; let’s go back to bed.” 

He fights me when I try to steer him back to the bedroom. He looks at me with his soulless black eyes. “The truth is I need you to stay, and I can’t offer you anything in return.” 

“You blew up my flat. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“IDIOT.” He steps away from me, doubling over and tangling his fingers in his hair. “God, you’re so fucking stupid.” 

“Hey, calm down,” I warn him. “Come to bed. Right now.” 

“I’m asking you to stay permanently.” He looks surprised to see the words come out of his mouth. He turns back to stare at the window. 

My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?” 

“No more week-long stake outs. No more overseas assassinations. No more hunting. No more meetings with Magnussen!” His voice gets louder and louder until he’s shouting. “I NEED YOU HERE. I NEED YOU TO KEEP ME RIGHT.” 

Fuck. 

“Are you serious?” 

His eyes blaze with white hot fury and he roars his frustration. I suddenly remember this crocodile I’d trapped in Nicobar, the way he’d thrashed about in his cage after I’d taped his mouth shut. Like he was possessed. 

I grab his arm tight, forcing him to face me. In this moment, I absolutely fucking hate him, and I don’t know why. “Every time you’ve needed something, I have dropped everything and come to you. I gave up my chance to be retried and possibly honorably discharged. I gave up smoking so I could watch your fucking rugrat while you sat in some prison, sucking Mycroft Holmes’ dick. I flew to fucking Switzerland to find your little weedchild when she was abducted. I gave up women for you! You didn’t ask me to, but I did. I have given up a lot for you, and you’ve never even said so much as “fuck you” and now you have the fucking audacity to demand I babysit you because you can’t bloody control yourself?!” 

“I’M NOT DEMANDING!” 

“Then what would you call this, Prof?” 

He flops into an armchair. “I have no bargaining chip here, Bash. I have absolutely nothing I can give you. I’ll never be your prim little house husband. I have no favors to ask of you. I am literally coming to you empty-handed, hoping that … ” His voice drops down to a whisper, “. . . hoping that you’ll settle for an illusion. Because I can never give you the reality you want.” 

“I love what I do, Jim.” 

“I know.” 

“I love traveling. I love shooting. I love gambling.” 

“I know.” 

“And you just want me to walk away from that, eh? It wasn’t enough that I don’t see Anisa anymore or that I avoid porn like the plague now. Now I have to help you with bake sales and taking Evey to kindergarten and--” 

“Just say no.” He shuts his eyes. 

“HOW THE FUCK CAN I JUST SAY NO, JAMES?!” 

He throws his hands up in defeat. “Like that, Moran. Just like that.” 

I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it into the fireplace. It does nothing to quell my fury. I stalk to the chair he’s laid out on, gripping the arms of the chair to box him in. “Fuck. Fuck you, Jim. Seriously. I fucking hate you.” 

There’s no fear in his eyes. Just a distant lost look. Maybe even shame at his own weakness. 

“I could fucking kill you right now.” 

Nothing. He doesn’t move a muscle. 

I lean in, towering over him. He cranes his neck to press a soft kiss to the edge of my mouth. “Just say no, Colonel.” 

I grip him by the throat, and he releases a small broken sound but otherwise seems unaffected. 

Jim needs me. 

My Jim needs me. 

I let him go, shoving his head against the back of the chair. He doesn’t move until I throw open the front door. “Are you leaving?” he asks softly. 

“No,” I snap back. “I’m getting my mobile out of the car so I can tell my boss I quit. Now go get in the fucking bed and don’t say another word to me.” 

I stand out in the snow for a long time, trying to process how to wriggle out of my contract with Magnussen, trying to process what I’ve just agreed to. 

No one has tied me down since the British Army. 

_I’ve got no strings to hold me down._

I made the choice to be with Jim and Evelyn. Every time I come back from a job, it’s my choice. Every email I’ve answered, every text I’ve read, everything I’ve done for them--it’s all been my choice. 

And if I stay . . . if I stay as Jim’s live-in pet, it won’t be a choice. It’ll be because Jim can’t be responsible for his own actions, because Evelyn is in danger, because the two of them won’t be safe from Jim’s obsession until Sherlock Holmes is dead. 

_James Moriarty is not a man at all. He's a spider. A spider at the center of a web._

The life I’ve crafted for myself is disappearing before my eyes. It’s not just the fact that I won’t be a for-hire killer; it’s the entirety of what I’ve sacrificed. Time to myself, card games, money, women . . . peace of mind. Five years ago, I never worried about anything. Now, I worry all the time. 

Love is paralyzing. 

Love is suffocating. 

I’m being suffocated by a weed and a spider’s web. 

I made the choice not to get away when I could. This is my punishment. 

_Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her._

He’s not my wife. He’d never consider marrying me. I don’t know if he’s capable of loving me. 

But I love him. I’ve loved him sacrificially. And I’ll continue to do so. My Jim. I’ll give him whatever he needs. 

I shoot off a text to Janine. She schedules a meeting with Mags for me for the day after Christmas. I turn my mobile off and trudge back into the cabin. 

I settle back into the bed, listening to Evelyn and Jim breathe, trying to convince myself that it’ll be worth it. I lie awake for a long time, motionless. I don’t know how much time passes before Jim’s hand envelopes mine, holding tightly. 

“Go to sleep, kitten.” 

I feel him shuffle about the bed, straining to kiss the backs of my fingers before he settles back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had like four or five sexy scenes written before my muse decided that things needed to be angsty. I hope Basher's response isn't as unbelievable and dramatic as it feels. If it does, whaddaya gonna do? It's fanfiction.


	16. The Weed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short little angsty moments highlighting Basher's sacrifice with a reconciliation of his depression and his choice to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will return to pseudo-plot in the next chapter. It's time for Jim to start being Moriarty again.

_February 2014_

A lot happens in two months. 

Magnussen’s not a “good” boss, and he didn’t take my resignation well at all. After negotiations (which included Jim, who seemed to really get off on the whole ordeal), its determined that I will work for Magnussen once a year if he requires it. For every month that Mags leaves my family alone, Jim will provide him with blackmail on his former business partners. And, then, there’s a third matter, one that was included solely because Magnussen is a bastard. 

A video. Magnussen demands that I choke Jim while fucking him. He claims recording it will not only prove that I did it but will also ensure that I don’t tattle on him, which is bogus. 

It’s the single most disturbing thing I’ve ever done. I’m not able to keep it up long enough to penetrate him, so we simulate that aspect, but I do choke him. 

Jim comes. Perverted little shit. I despise him for days afterwards. 

Once we’re free of Mags, once we’ve completed the video and he’s satisfied with its content, I can’t bring myself to touch Jim again. We resume our habit of sleeping in separate beds, only my bed is gone, so I’m back to sleeping on the sofa. 

I can’t kiss him. I can’t touch him. I can’t look at my reflection without seeing my father, and I fucking hate it. And, unfortunately, this bleeds into my interactions with Evelyn. She notices, of course. She asks why I don’t hug her anymore, why I don’t kiss her, and it breaks my fucking heart. 

The end of December, the entirety of January, and the beginning of February are the absolute worst months of my entire life. I feel impotent, not only because I’m disgusted with the similarities I now share with my father, but because . . . I’m not working, or hunting, or gambling, or fucking. 

All the things I’ve loved are stripped from me, and during those months, I have no idea who I am except Evelyn’s dad. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret sacrificing my lifestyle for Evey, I don’t--but I resent it, and it’s hell. It’s hell to always be available, to do the same thing over and over and over again. Wake up, get Evelyn dressed and ready for the day, make sure Jim at least drinks water so he doesn’t shrivel up and die, get Evelyn to preschool, pick her up from preschool, make sure clothes get washed, make sure the shopping is done, make sure both Jim and Evelyn are in bed at decent times, drug Jim when he gets out of hand . . . on and on and on. 

It’s also during this time that I realize I’ve been a “weekend dad” to Evelyn up until this point. Up until Christmas, I’d never seen her post-infancy anxiety meltdowns, or had to deal the night terrors that randomly rear their ugly head. She’d never blatantly, consistently disobeyed me before; now all I hear is “no” and not the cute “no” that she used to give. 

There’s a lot of tears and nightmares that go into parenting, I learn. And not a lot of sleep. 

I’m able to keep Jim mostly together, I think. I make sure he minimizes his screen time, so that he can only do everyday things, like not hacking into Sherlock Holmes’ emails and playing online chess. Something in his face changes, though. It reminds me of that catatonic sort of look he had after Mycroft Holmes released him. He smiles only at Evelyn, and even then it’s very brief. Sometimes, he falls so deep into his own mind that I have to shake him to get his attention. 

After the New Year, he goes for days without eating. He only sleeps because of the lorazepam injections. 

The handwashing becomes particularly problematic in January, just before he resumes teaching. His cuticles split and peel, his palms become scaly and rough, and his fingers crack and bleed. At first, I ignore it, because I don’t know what the fuck else to do about it, and truthfully, the bitter side of me wants him to bleed. I want him to suffer. 

At the end of January, Evelyn’s teacher reports that she’s started emulating the behavior at school, and I figure it’s time to address the issue. Jim agrees that something has to change. 

One night in mid-February, he wakes me up by curling up beside me on the sofa. He pulls my arm around his waist, not so much to be affectionate, but to keep him from falling onto the ground. I feel that odd pang of disgust, but I suppress it. I’m getting really good at suppression, I think bitterly. 

He smells different, I realize. He smells like chalk and printer toner--not his fancy French cologne or his imported Swiss soaps or the spices he uses when he cooks. My stomach twists at the realization, but I can’t bring myself to cuddle him closer. I can’t bring myself to offer him any comfort. 

I want him away from me. I want him to go sleep in his bed. 

I don’t want to be angry at him, but I am, and I don’t fully understand why. 

I made the choice to not have a choice. 

_I had no choice._

_I’m trapped._

_Hi Sisyphus, I’m Sebastian Moran._

“Yeah?” 

He doesn’t answer for a long time, and I wonder if he’s finally fallen asleep. Then he says, “I’ve been offered a research fellowship at the University of Queensland in Brisbane.” 

I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t, so I prod. “I don’t know what that means, Jim.” 

“I’ll be doing meta-research on telemedicine.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means that I’ll be researching the best methods to research ideas that medical administrators have to improve healthcare that’s provided at a distance.” 

We’re both silent. 

“Jim, that sounds incredibly boring.” 

“It’ll . . . it’ll involve a lot of time and energy. A lot of, erm, brainwork, I suppose. Lots of data to gather and process.” He rests his forehead against my chin. “Should I take it?” 

_Oh._

“Fuck, Jim, I have no idea.” 

He sighs and goes silent. His eyelashes flutter against my neck, prompting a new wave of disgust. 

I think maybe he wants comfort. Help? Help making a decision? Just a sounding board? Well, fuck that, I’ve already given up my sexuality, my pride, my hobbies, and my livelihood for him. I’m not giving him a night’s sleep. He can fucking figure this out on his goddamn own. 

_Why do I still just want to rip open his jugular?_

“I don’t know what you want, boss, but I’m trying to sleep. Go to your room.” 

He tenses against me, and for a brief moment, my instincts go crazy, warning me that I’m about to be murdered. His eyes bore into me, and I stare straight back at him. There was a time in our working relationship that that glare would’ve paralyzed me. Now, they only terrify me. The monstrosity that is Moriarty has shown his belly, and, while I have no doubt that he’ll bite me, I know that he won’t kill me. 

“Go to your room, _professor_.” 

He slides off the sofa and storms to his room. I hear him rummaging through a closet, looking for the handgun he’d hidden there. Since his meltdown in November, I’ve disposed of it. 

After an hour of his frantic searching and whispered cursing, I administer the Xanax the doctor prescribed and wait until he’s knocked out before returning to the sofa. 

~~

_March 2014_

Jim stands on the bed, one of my buck knives extended towards me. His raw, dry throat manages a vicious, “No!” 

“You’re going!” 

“No!” 

“Yes! You haven’t peed in ten hours, Jim!” 

He starts to shout, but instead he vomits. All over the comforter. At this point, it’s just bile. He cleared the contents of his stomach forty-eight hours ago. I have no idea what’s keeping him upright, because by all means, he should be passed out if not dead. He looks back at me, the whites of his eyes red as blood and all the veins on his face protruding against his pale skin. His lips are chapped to the point that they should be bleeding, but his blood is probably too thick to move at this point. 

Without missing a beat, he says primly, “That’s because I haven’t been able to keep anything down in ten hours.” 

“We’re going to the a &e.” 

“No!” 

“Papa?” Evelyn’s standing in the doorway of our new flat in Brisbane, still bleary-eyed and puny from her own bout with whatever Australian hell-virus my two charges have contracted. “Whass going on?” 

Jim quickly hides the knife behind his back. “Nothing,” we both say in unison. 

“Evey, darling, you look so tired,” Jim cooes. “Go to bed, baby.” 

“She looks a sight better than you!” 

He glares at me. “We’re getting better!” 

“ _She’s_ getting better! _You_ have a fever of 38.9!” 

“Daddy,” she says, remarkably reasonably for a child whose father is standing on the bed in just his pants wielding a buck knife, “you need to go to the doctor.” 

“No, I need to go to sleep, but your--” he kicks at me “--idiot papa won’t let me.” 

“Oh like you weren’t in here playing minesweeper before I came in!” 

He stumbles, but rights himself before he can fall. His eyes unfocus for a moment, and I’m terrified he’s going to pass out right onto his knife. 

How’s that for poetic justice? Moriarty, who has put so many of his allies to death, stabs himself in the back whilst trying to hide from his daughter the knife he’s threatening her papa with. 

Tosser. 

“Jim, get off the bed before you slip in vomit.” 

He averts his eyes from the mess on the mattress. He taps his fingers against his cheek in a familiar pattern, his attempt to self-soothe since he can’t get to the sink to wash his hands. “Evey, would you please get a bottle of water out of the kitchen?” 

Evelyn nods and trots off. I turn to watch her leave, making sure that she’s not experiencing any dizziness or other side effects from the illness, which is a huge mistake, because the moment my back is turned, the burning mass that is Jim is on my back, the knife pressed to my throat. “If you leave me at that hospital, I will track you down and cut your spine out of your body.” 

In my chest arises the first annoying pang of affection I’ve felt for Jim since November. Despite the awkward positioning, I reach behind me to stroke his cheek. “You fucking twat, I’m not gonna leave you.” 

I feel his stomach clench behind me and jerk out of his grasp before he can vomit on me. 

“Yes you are!” he says after he’s vomited on the bed again. “You wanna take Evelyn and flee!” 

I groan. Daft, paranoid, puke-y idiot. “James Moriarty, you are sick as a dog; there is absolutely no reason for me to wait until you’re in the hospital to ‘flee.’” 

He looks up at me with saucer-wide eyes. 

“Oh, you poor sick bastard. You didn’t even think of that, did you?” 

“I’m not sick,” he says, completely unconvincing. 

Several small flutters of cloying affection swarm in my chest. “Yes, you are, kitten.” 

His shoulders sag at the nickname. He looks at me with the puniest eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I know that I’ve won; Jim’s going to the hospital. “Basher,” he croaks, “why haven’t you cleaned up all the vomit on the bed?” 

“Remember two minutes ago when you had a knife to my neck?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Jim?” 

“Hm?” 

“Give me the knife.” 

He half-heartedly clutches it to his chest, collapsing on his side to the bed, as far away from the evidence of his sickness as possible. He petulantly shakes his head. 

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. You can keep the knife up until we get the a &e, all right?” 

He thinks this over before nodding. I wait for him to get up, but he doesn’t budge. 

“Jim?” 

“Carry meeee.” 

~~

When he’s less delirious, when he’s aware enough of his own body to feel the palpitations and the headache and the weakness, he’s flat out bitchy. He tries to rein it in with Evelyn, but he’s very terse with her when she jumps onto his bed to hug him. He apologizes later, and the two lay in the hospital bed. Evelyn counts his fingers until she falls asleep. 

He doesn’t say anything for several hours, but he doesn’t sleep either. He taps Evelyn’s fingers. He counts the buttons on the nurses’ paging device. It’s nearly midnight when I turn off the telly. No one’s watching it anyway. 

“Leaving?” Jim asks as I scoop Evelyn up in my arms. 

“Yeah.” He searches my face in the dim light of the room. “Not forever, though. We’ll be back to check on you in the morning.” 

His eyes flutter. “I’ll find you if you don’t.” He doesn’t sound very threatening. Just tired. 

Sympathy for the poor man swells in my chest. “Jim,” I whisper, careful not to wake Evelyn, “I didn’t bring you here to abandon you. I brought you here because I was worried about you.” It’s not a sentimental statement; it’s just fact. I still want desperately to break free from him and his weed child. 

“You’re still angry.” 

“I am.” 

“Then why are you still around?” It’s a genuine question. 

I shrug. “Hedgehog’s dilemma, I suppose. The need to feel loved and close to someone even though inevitably you’ll get hurt.” 

He rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. “I wish you’d stay the night.” Not “with me,” just “the night.” There’s an important difference in those two statements, and Jim’s chosen the wrong one. 

Quiet rage fills my chest. “I know, kitten. But, like you said, I’m still angry.” 

He scoffs. “So you’re punishing me?” 

I lean over him to kiss his cheek. He’s temperature’s gone down considerably, but he’s still feverish. “No. I just can’t stay here tonight.” 

As I exit the room, he quietly says, “I’m sorry it’s like this. Our situation.” 

It’s my turn to scoff. “No you’re not.” 

“No,” he concedes, “but I wish you weren’t so melodramatic about it.” 

~~

_September 2014_

Evey’s little feet are pounding against the grass, cleats kicking up clumps of dirt in her wake. From the sidelines, I can see the glimmer of sweat sliding down her temple. She’s fierce as hell on the football field, and it’s uncanny how much she looks like Jim when she gets focused like this. 

I’m on my feet, shifting my weight back and forth, probably screaming, I don’t know. The small crowd of adults watching little kids play footy is going absolutely mad, and I’m apart of them, so I’m probably screaming. Definitely screaming. Beside me, Jim is at the edge of his seat, hands folded and resting against his chin, silent and watching intently. 

Some bigger kid playing midfielder tries to stop her, but Evelyn swerves around her, maintaining control of the spinning ball that’s probably too large for their kiddie league. It’s all I can do not to shout obscenities at the sweeper who’s dashing up to defend the goal. 

Coach Kahn is shouting for Evelyn to pass the ball, which is stupid because their team hasn’t scored a single goal all night. Probably to do with the whole “team work” philosophy of the rec center, but fuck that. 

“No! Don’t! Go go go go!” 

Kahn glares at me. 

Evelyn doesn’t pass the ball. Instead, she makes her move, kicking the ball through the air. 

Our side of the field erupts. 

Past the sweeper. 

Jim is on his feet. 

Past the goalkeeper. 

I grip his hand, and he grips back just as tight. 

The ball collides with the corner of the net, stopping it dead in its tracks. 

There’s a collective “Yes!” that shoots up from our side of the field. It’s the first goal we’ve scored all season. Maybe now Kahn will let up with this idea that every kid should play every position. Evey’s a born forward. 

I’m giving Kahn a knowing look when I realize that in my excitement, I’ve embraced Jim, and he’s embraced me back. I’m holding him so tight I can feel his heart pounding against me. Kahn pretends not to notice the look, and part of me thinks I should go address his stupid approach to coaching this team. The other part of me is acutely aware of Jim’s body against me. 

It’s been a _very_ long time. We’ve slept in separate rooms since the move to Australia. We’ve cohabited peacefully as he’s thrown himself into his research for the university, and I’ve played Mr. Mum, but the physical aspect of our relationship has been almost completely non-existent. 

All this happens in a span of maybe two seconds. Evey scores a goal. Kahn ignores me. I kiss Jim. 

The world stops. I’ve never had a kiss that just stops the world before. It’s difficult to describe because, again, I don’t have that primal urge to _take_ and _ravage_ , but it’s familiar and comfortable and puts me at ease, like slipping into well-worn pyjamas after a long day or sleeping in on a warm Sunday morning. 

I didn’t realize how much I missed touching Jim, having him close. When the kiss breaks and the world resumes, I keep my arm around his shoulder, pressing him against me. Keeping him against me because I want him there. The feel of his ridiculously expensive tee-shirt against the skin of my arm, the smell of green apples and cologne tickling my nose, the image of Evelyn prancing blissfully back into position before the ref blows the whistle . . . It’s boring and cliche, but somehow it fills me with something I can’t describe. 

I remember Carrie reading _To The Lighthouse_ to me. I wasn’t paying much attention, but the line “the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!” always stuck with me. It seemed so ridiculous at the time, so unbelievable, and yet, at this moment, _enough_ is all I can feel. 

I don’t hunt. I don’t kill. I don’t gamble. I don’t fuck. 

I miss all those things. 

But this moment, this season of my life, it’s enough. It’s all enough. I can let go of the rage I have towards Jim and Evelyn, I can let go of the contempt for this boring lifestyle, because this is enough. 

I may never experience the adrenaline rush of murder again, or the delight of touching a woman again, but this is enough. 

My weird little family. 

Evelyn waves to me from the field for just a moment. She’s beaming. I wave and beam back. I press a kiss to Jim’s temple. His arm snakes around my waist, almost shyly. 

It’s not okay. 

I’m not happy. 

But. . . 

Oh my God, this is enough. 


	17. And the Tiger, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Magnussen's death, Jim and Basher go to London to kill Sherlock only to find that Jim's face is plastered all over every screen saying, "Miss Me?" Which then leads to Basher being abducted, which then leads to Basher working for Irene...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, this chapter just got waaaay outta hand. Sorry, I promise we're getting closer to the end. I think. I hope. I'm trying. I've gone way off script. Does it show? This was supposed to be the second to last chapter. There's just too much happening. 
> 
> Also, just so you're aware, Basher has some very for-the-male-gaze lesbian daydreams, and he uses some problematic/transphobic language because, sorry folks, he's an ass. He murders people. He's not my mouthpiece--he's got his own warped views and all that shit. So, just be aware if that could be triggering or upsetting to you. 
> 
> Again, I repeat, Basher and Jim are NOT good people. 
> 
> And I recognize that Basher's interactions with Anthea (going by Elektra because she's electric) are sort of rapey and gross, but just enjoy it, because Basher enjoys it and Anthea enjoys it . . . so. . . 
> 
> Everyone is trash in this story, ok? So just enjoy the trash.

_January 2015_

“Who believes this sort of shite?” Jim is pacing furiously in front of the telly, practically pulling his hair out. “A _sniper_ didn’t do that.” 

The death of Charles Augustus Magnussen was officially confirmed just hours ago, but Janine had texted me that he’d been dead for at least a week. His own newspapers reported it days before credible news sources did--I can’t help but wonder if the arsehole had his written his own death announcement ahead of time. I’m reading through the list of possible suspects, and I have to hide my delight that I am listed among them. 

“You suppose the Ice Man did it?” 

“It’s either Sherlock or the Girl One.” 

“ _Hooper_?” 

“For fuck’s sake, no, his sister. Eurus.” 

I set the tablet back on the coffee table. “Eurus?” 

“Do you ever listen? I mean, I know you _listen_ but are you capable of retaining information?” 

“Watch it, James.” My voice has gotten more gravelly since I started smoking again. 

“The Girl Holmes. Eurus. The crazy sister.” 

I have absolutely zero recall of any conversation I may have had with Jim regarding a third Holmes offspring. “Eurus?” I repeat. 

James flops dramatically onto an armchair. “THE GIRL ONE.” He plucks up a finger for each of Sherlock’s harem as he lists them off. “Adler. Hooper. Mary. EURUS.” 

“I vaguely remember that from your meltdown last year.” I feel cold thinking about the fact that I’ve not been Sebastian Moran for over a year now. I wash the thought away, along with the residual fury I have towards my boyfriend, with the remaining whiskey in my glass. 

“Eurus wants to kill her brothers. It was a bit of a competition, you see--who would kill Sherlock first. I had a decent head-start, what with not being under lockdown in a government facility--I killed him in a year. EXCEPT HE DIDN’T FUCKING DIE.” 

“Cool it, mate.” I pick up the tablet. I’m not going to sit here and chat about Sherlock Holmes--not when we’ve only just gotten back to the point where heavy-petting and fondling isn't awkward. We still don't have sex, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m still (mostly?) heterosexual or that I just hate my fucking life. 

He gives me a death glare, but I’m too drunk/hung over from Christmas Day to care. He grabs the tablet and sends it flying against the wall, shattering the screen and sending a few bits of metal and wire flying across the floor. “NO.” 

I roll my eyes. We go through this sometimes--but his spells of Sherlock-obsession have gotten further apart. I half-hoped they were gone. Obviously, I don’t kid myself into thinking that he’d ever fully let go of the Holmes fixation; but the KILL SHERLOCK ruts that haunt him, cripple him, are less frequent. I’d hoped they were just a memory now. “You’re buying me a new tablet.” 

_Because I can’t,_ I think bitterly. There’s something distinctly emasculating about _not_ working, about spending _Jim’s_ money. Thank God for the numbing powers of alcohol and nicotine. 

Something about him completely changes. He slinks into my lap, nuzzling his cheek against mine, almost submissively. “Baaash,” he whines. He begins pawing at my chest. 

“Oh my God, I don’t know what you want, Jim.” 

“Let’s goooo.” 

“Go?” 

“To London. This is our chaaaaance.” He pouts, staring up at me with puppy dog eyes. 

I shrug. “Okay.” 

“Really?” He seems completely taken aback. 

“I mean, Mags is dead. Why not?” 

He snuggles his head beneath my chin, practically buzzing with excitement. “Find a flight.” 

“I’m not your travel agent. I’m going to email Evey’s teacher and tell him she’s gonna be out for a few days.” 

He squeezes me. “Family assassination vacation!” 

“She’s not going to the actual assassination with me. Neither are you.” 

“She’s a big girl.” 

“No way.” 

“You took her hunting during her break!” 

“Yeah, kangaroo hunting and people hunting are drastically different.” 

Jim shakes his head. “Not really.” He snuggles harder against me. I half-smile and begin stroking his back with one hand while I use my mobile to email Evelyn’s teacher with the other. “The overpopulation, the idiocy, you hunt them. . .” he trails off, sounding very pleased with himself. 

After I’ve sent the email, I try to reposition his knees. “If you’re gonna be there a while, you’re gonna have to move your legs, because you are right on my knife.” 

He nuzzles his cheek into my chest harder. “You smell nice.” 

“I’m not booking the goddamn flight. I’m not doing it.” 

He looks up at me with half-lidded eyes, smiling softly. He nibbles at my chin, which is so absurd, I chuckle. “Jim, knock it off.” 

He sits up, straddling my lap, looking mischievous in a way I haven’t seen since his "suicide." It sends shivers down my spine. _Hello Professor._ He opens his mouth and Moriarty’s voice oozes out. “Are you going to kill Sherlock for me?” he purrs. 

I’m not sure what’s happening. I swallow, clueless how to answer. 

“I’d let you, you know. You’re the only other person in the world that I’d willingly let kill Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Is this how Moriarty does foreplay?” I try to sound cool and collected, but my voice is higher than I intend. 

He laughs this deep throaty laugh while biting at my neck. My body burns at the conflicting responses. Everything is simultaneously disgusting and old hat and arousing and new. It’s been a year and a month since our first and last roll in the hay. I’ve not slept in his bed and he hasn’t slept in mine. 

He kisses me, and it’s different than any kiss we’ve ever shared. Calm. Deep. The promise of something else in the distance, not just _id_ needs and reactions. 

“You’re going to kill Sherlock Holmes for me, right, tiger?” 

“Jim, I’m not doing dirty talk if it’s gonna revolve another man.” 

He grinds down on my lap, his half-interested cock pressing against my lower abdomen. “Basher, the thought of you playing White Knight, coming to kill the big bad detective for me. . .” 

“Oh my God, no.” 

“Come on, play with me.” 

“No. I’m not gonna get you off while you fantasize about Sherlock Holmes.” 

His eyes sparkle. “Are you jealous?” His voice is even lower. 

I shrug. I’m cool with admitting that, yeah, I am a little jealous. “A bit.” 

His hand dips between us, gripping my thoroughly uninterested cock. “Please, tiger? Promise Daddy you’re going to shoot Sherlock Holmes through his goddamned skull.” 

My stomach curdles like sour milk at the title of “Daddy.” There will be absolutely no way I’ll manage a full hard-on tonight. 

“Do it for me? Please, tiger, please?” he pouts. He squeezes me, trying to drum up a little bit of interest with almost no success. 

“Kitten, I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for disappointment in that department.” I pull his wrist away from my groin. 

He scowls at me then buries his face against my neck, humming happily, apparently content to just snuggle and daydream about killing Sherlock Holmes. 

I hate him for it. I hate him because as long as Sherlock Holmes lives, I’ll always be his understudy in Jim’s reality. Always on the periphery, almost on the receiving end of Jim’s affections. But if I get rid of Sherlock Holmes, I’m the headliner. Why do I have to compete in this goddamn relationship? 

And maybe that’s what I hate most of all. The fact that I’m so bound to Jim and Evelyn that Sherlock Holmes actually matters to me. Sherlock Holmes is ruining our lives. My family. 

And I protect my family. 

I couldn’t as a little boy, but I can now. 

Despite the resentment I have for Jim and his obsession, I kiss his temple. “But, yeah, if you want me to kill him, I will,” I tell him softly. 

“My hero.” 

~~

“Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?” 

Behind me, Mycroft Holmes flips off the television. The hard soles of his shoes tap against the concrete floor of his weird underground bunker, arrhythmic and intimidating. I could very well die here. 

It had all happened so fast. We got through customs and security with no issues; we were exiting the airport when Jim’s face was suddenly plastered on every screen. _Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?_

His eyes went wide and all the blood drained out of his face. There was no way we'd be able to make our way around the city now. I grabbed Evelyn’s hand and told Jim to run, that I’d find him when everything calmed down. His face told me he wouldn’t leave Evelyn before his words did. I shoved our daughter towards him and told him to get to his bolt-hole. 

“If anyone catches you, you work for Irene on Moreton Island and you have for the last eight months,” he told me before grabbing me by the nape of my neck and kissing me. It was an oddly romantic gesture--kissing when he should be fleeing. 

Mycroft caught up with me, of course. It only took a few hours. I didn’t try to hide, though. If they _found me_ , they wouldn’t look for _my family_. 

And so now, here I am, nose bloodied, cuffed to a chair, Mycy’s henchmen waiting for the opportunity to end me. A sick side of me is relieved. Finally, something. I can feel something immediate and visceral and real and vibrant and so close to death. The adrenaline coursing through me blots out the depression of everyday existence, and it's awesome. 

I grin at the man in the suit. “Miss me?” 

Mycroft is not amused. “Where is he?” 

“Who?” 

“You know who.” 

“Voldemort?" 

The Ice Man scowls. "M." 

"Are you asking about the Professor? Because I got news for you, Your Majesty, he swallowed a bullet just before your brother jumped off a building.” 

Mycroft props himself up on his umbrella. “You know by now that Sherlock did not commit suicide, of course.” 

“So you think the Professor did too? You think they just faked suicide at each other?” 

He narrows his eyes. He’s contemplating his next statement. I’m an exceptional liar (most children of abuse are, I’m told), and I hope against hope that my thrill at being in danger lends itself to appearing innocent--or at least blissfully out of the know. 

I give him a suspicious look. “What is it that you know that I don’t, Holmes?” 

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “You expect me to believe that the day you fly back to London is the same day that your supposedly deceased employer reappears on every screen in the British empire?” 

“Empire?” I smirk. “You mean a few islands and a bit of Ireland?” 

“ _Northern_ Ireland,” he corrects, and I laugh. 

“He wasn't my employer. I knew _of_ him. We met once when I was discharged, Mycy.” He grimaces at the nickname. One of his minions takes a swing. Pain shoots through my jaw. I taste blood. Holy God, I’m enjoying this. Maybe not getting socked, but the adrenaline rush, the blind, animalistic fury that accompanies being tortured. It’s raw and real, and there’s absolutely zero lingering regret and resentment, just hot hatred and burning rage. 

I stain Holmes’s tie with blood spit, then give him a wink. “If he were alive--” 

“ _Was_.” 

“--his big reveal would’ve been more dramatic. And lethal.” 

Mycroft stares me down. “And just what have you been doing for the last year, Moran?” 

“Working for your old pal Mags, Myc.” 

Another punch to the face. My teeth rattle in my skull. Oh, when I get out of here, I am going to tear this minion’s thumbs off his hands. 

“You haven’t worked for him in a little over a year,” Mycroft says when my ears stop ringing. 

I smirk and shrug. Mycroft nods to the minion. Something sharp and hot skitters through my body, and I think my vision goes offline. I don’t realize for several seconds that I’ve been electrocuted. 

My fingers and limbs twitch involuntarily. I grit my teeth, waiting for the burn to subside. “Not sure what you expect me to say, Your Highness.” 

His face is blank as he says, “Again.” 

Blinding heat courses through me, making every muscle in my body contract. I writhe against the restraints. Everything goes white. 

Jesus, the things I do for my family. . . 

“What have you been doing for the last year?” he asks again. He seems incredibly uninterested for someone trying to beat answers out of me. 

I shake my head. “Sorry, Mycy, am I boring you?” 

Screams erupt from my throat as another jolt of electricity flies through me. 

“Let’s try another line of questioning,” he says as blood trickles from my nose. “ _Why_ have you been in Australia?” 

“Working.” 

“For?” 

“Pay.” 

“Moran, I’m warning you.” 

“That’s an interesting way of conducting an interrogation,” I slur. My tongue is numb. “I usually warned the victim _before_ I broke their face.” 

Holmes addresses the minion behind me. “Time for a new approach.” 

~~

I wake up, feeling groggy and absolutely compelled to sing “Space Oddity.” I vaguely remember the pinch of the needle in my arm as the Ice Man’s minions pump some sort of “truth serum” into my veins. My eyes try to adjust to the blinding brightness of the fluorescent lights above me, but doing so only makes even more aware of how much my skull aches. 

I sit up slowly, the world circling around me in a not entirely unpleasant way. An attractive lass in a business suit sitting on the other side of the room notices but says nothing. Instead, she taps something on her phone. 

I try to ask where I am, but my throat is dry, and my lips are caked with blood. I lay back down, realizing that I’m in some sort of medical center. Beneath my completely naked body is that scratchy paper that always covers beds in exam rooms. I check my arms for IVs, and finding none, try to parse out what happened. 

_“Who are you working for?”_ Mycroft had asked. 

Oh. 

Fuck. 

I have no idea what I answered. My hangover/lingering-druggedness evaporates as panic washes over me. I sit up again, too fast this time, my vision blurring. I have to warn Jim. 

My feet hit the cold tile floor, and I have to fight to keep myself righted. Before the woman at the desk can stop me, the door opens to reveal Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes. I stare at them for a moment, then yelp. I don’t know why--my mouth deemed it appropriate long before my brain even had a chance to consider it. 

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft groans, glaring at the woman at the desk, “why is he still nude?” 

She gives him a smirk. I recognize her now as Mycroft’s personal/professional assistant. Jim had given me her photo long before Evelyn popped on the scene; he’d warned me she was the most dangerous woman in London. “I forgot,” she answers, looking me up and down suggestively. 

I grin. Well, then. 

“Hello, Sebastian,” Irene purrs. “Ready to go home?” 

No, if I’m honest. I wouldn’t mind being naked a bit longer with Mycroft’s assistant. “Yes ma’am,” I answer before I even remember why I was supposed to answer that way. “Where are my clothes?” I ask the woman at the desk. I lean on her desk, or try to; I misjudge my proximity to the desk. Thin air can’t support my weight, and so I fall to the ground. 

“They fell,” she answers coolly. 

“Fell where?” 

“Down the incinerator.” 

I sit up, smiling like an idiot. I like this girl. “What’s your name?” God, why can’t I shut up? 

“Elektra,” she lies, and I realize she must’ve electrocuted me during the interrogation. I don’t hold grudges. Usually. Not when I’m high, anyway. 

Adler sighs. “Alas, it won’t be the first time a nude man has traveled with me, though we may have a hard time boarding the plane. Come along, Colonel.” 

“No private jet?” Mycroft Holmes mocks the dominatrix. 

“Heavens no,” Irene pouts. “I run a small bed and breakfast in Moreton Island. How would I afford a jet?” 

Mycroft deadpans. “Bed and breakfasts aren’t registered with the Prostitution Licensing Authority.” 

The dominatrix gives him a genuine smile. “And why would a gentleman of your stature be reviewing the PLA? Looking for places to let off some steam, Mr. Holmes?” She turns back to me, losing her flirtatious, I-Know-Things-You-Don’t edge. “Now really, Moran, I have clients checking in, and I do hate to be absent when they arrive. Chop chop, we have things to do.” 

Still on the floor, I look up at Elektra. “Can I call you?” 

“No.” 

“I’m gonna call you anyway.” 

She kicks me in the stomach but I might actually be too high to care. Irene grabs the hair on the back of my neck and drags me to my feet. “ _Now_ , if you please.” 

Stumbling, I follow, winking at “Elektra” as I leave. 

Adler leads me outside, and of course, it’s snowing. From the looks of the building I exit, you’d never guess it was some secret place for shady government doings. It looks like an abandoned flat complex out in the middle of a forest. They must’ve moved me after the torture session. God, what day is it? 

Another woman I don’t recognize is driving the car, but the glances she and Adler exchange make it clear that their relationship isn’t strictly professional. Or maybe it is, considering Adler’s line of work. 

My still-foggy brain cooks up a nice little image of the driver eating Irene out as we drive away. I try not to dwell on it. Sort of. I guess I should say, I think of something else when I remember that I’m still naked, and it’s probably inappropriate to get an erection in front of the lesbian that just saved my skin. 

“What happened to Kate?” I ask. 

“Witness protection,” Irene answers. 

“Aw, you broke up?” 

“Tara, please give this gentleman your coat. I’d rather not have to look at his cock the entire drive to the airport.” 

“What if I was a woman with a cock?” I ask, feeling somewhat defiant. I think maybe I’m still more drugged than I realize. Painkillers, maybe. I should definitely be feeling the effects of a broken nose. 

Irene smiles as she hands me Tara’s coat. “Reading gender theory, I see. Trying to understand what you had with Moriarty?” 

Her eyes widen ever so slightly when she says “had,” alerting me that there is a chance the vehicle is bugged. I nod back, offering a smile that I hope indicates my thanks. 

“No. Trying to understand your clientele.” 

She winks. “That’s not your job, Mr. Moran.” 

I cover my waist with the coat. “Where are we?” 

“Wales.” 

“And what day is it?” 

“Friday, January 16.” 

My jaw drops. I’ve been out of commission for almost two weeks. No wonder my head still feels like it’s full of helium. Godammit, coming down from this is going to be absolute hell. “Am I addicted?” I cannot go back home with an addiction. I don’t think I have the self-control to not have sex with women, not kill someone, _and_ not use whatever bloody drug Holmes gave me for two weeks straight. 

Irene shrugs. “Don’t know. I didn’t ask.” 

“You’re a terrible boss.” 

“You’ve a habit of finding those.” 

“Sorry, I ratted you out,” I lie, trying to elaborate on the story that I’m working for her, just in case Mycroft is listening. 

“I suppose he would’ve found out I was alive sooner or later. He’s constantly invading Sherlock’s privacy.” 

I can’t explain why, but I am livid to hear that fucking name. “You still in touch with that motherfucker?” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Of course.” 

I lean up to the driver. “Listen--what’s your name?” 

“Izzy.” 

“--Izzy, listen, your girlfriend here, she’s in love with a man. Like a legit man.” 

“‘Legit’ man?” Izzy scoffs. 

I roll my eyes. “Cisgender man. . . is what I meant.” 

“Being a transman doesn’t make him less of a ‘legit’ man,” Izzy glares at me through the rearview mirror. 

I actually feel a little cowed. “Sorry! I’m sorry.” 

“Good! You should be. Fucking cunt.” 

“I just said I was sorry, bitch!” 

“It’s all right, Isabella,” Irene says, chuckling at my red face. “He’s Catholic. He doesn’t know any better.” 

“Well, that’s not offensive at all.” 

Izzy turns around to snarl at me. “OH and you challenging the legitimacy of someone’s identity isn’t offensive?” 

“I used to kill people for a living!” 

“Children, settle down. Izzy, please keep your eyes on the road. We’ve got an entire flight to Australia to enlighten our boy about gender politics.” 

And _that_ , unfortunately, sends a pulse of arousal straight to my cock. _Our boy._ I blame the drugs. I shouldn’t be thinking about Irene and Izzy going at it, or fucking Irene from behind while Izzy tongues her clit, or Izzy sucking my cock. 

I hope Izzy doesn’t want her coat back. 

~~

Coming down from Holmes’ hell-potion was the worst experience of my life. The mild hangover I had after waking up in Wales was nothing compared to the excruciation I experienced once we landed in Sydney. (Adler, as a side note, does in fact have a private jet. Izzy, as it turns out, is her girlfriend/pilot.) 

I don’t remember much aside from the ice-picks-in-my-eyeballs pain, sweat seeping out of my pores and the fatigued weakness in my extremities. I think I vomited a few times, but the nausea was vastly overshadowed by the migraine. 

And. . . 

And I remember wondering when my makeshift family would show up. I was actually dreading the bouncing ball of energy and snark that was my Evelyn throwing open the door to the room I was staying in, letting in all the light while screeching her excitement about being reunited with her Papa. I was dreading Jim’s arseholery about being captured, his bitching about how he was annoyed to have had to call in a favor to Irene Adler. 

But they never showed. 

So, when I can walk without passing out, I find Irene’s office. It’s just as decadent as the rest of the brothel; overstuffed antique couches, subtly lit hallways, lots of glass, reflecting light but never reflections. And it’s quiet. Given the age and architecture of the house, I imagine Adler’s spent a small fortune on updates and repairs and soundproofing the rooms. 

When I walk in, she asks with that condescendingly flirtatious smile, “Feeling better?” 

“Where’s J--my family?” 

She retrieves her mobile, and presses a few buttons. A soft, nearly inaudible sound fills the office. “Shut the door, please. No one saw you exit your room?” 

I shrug. “Didn’t pass anyone in the hallway.” 

She rises from behind her desk, motioning for me to take a seat opposite her. “As you can imagine, Mycroft Holmes is very interested in what happens next between us. Although I confirmed that you’ve been working for me for the last eight months, he doesn’t believe it. You can’t leave, Moran. Not for a while, anyway. And Mr. Moriarty can’t come here.” 

I snort. “You can’t keep me here.” 

“I do what I must to protect my business,” she says sternly. “I’ve done quite a lot for you, including cancelling a week’s worth of clients to fly to Wales to retrieve you and fly back. Not to mention that Izzy’s piloting rates are simply outrageous. I do spoil her.” Genuine affection slips through the dominatrix mask, her cheeks tinting pink and her eyes softening. “Anyway, you’ll be here a while.” 

“No, you don’t get it. J--Addison needs me.” 

“No need for codenames. The mobile’s interfering with any recording or listening devices. I don’t keep it on all the time, lest it seem suspicious, but for now, we’ll keep it on.” 

“Jim needs me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, my headache returning. 

She smirks at the use of his first name. 

“He does, Irene.” 

“I prefer _Ms. Adler_.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Ms. Adler,” I spit back. 

“Moriarty’s a big boy, I’m sure he’ll be fine.” 

_No, he won’t. He’s a super-intelligent hell-cat child in a grown man’s body who can’t cope with the fact that Sherlock Holmes is still alive!_ But I can’t say that. I can’t tell Irene--Ms. Adler--that Jim’s neuroses can be destructive and that he can’t be left alone with our daughter for long periods of time. 

“Irene, it’s very important that I get back to my family,” I plead. 

She doesn’t correct me. For a moment, I think I detect sympathy in her expression, but it quickly washes away. “I’ve spoken with Moriarty. He’s aware of the predicament in which we find ourselves. Frankly, I’m surprised he even called me. I would have thought he’d be perfectly content to let you rot in a cell. Or worse.” 

Fucking Jim. I feel sick. Of course, the little shit would punish me for this. Cunt. 

Adler continues on. “So, you’ll be here, working security for me until it’s safe for you to return.” 

“Have a lot of problem clients?” 

“Actually, we’ve been having an issue with feral pigs.” 

That catches my attention. “Boars?” 

She grins. “And the occasional peeping Tom. Mostly, I just need you to stand there and look intimidating.” 

I lean back in my chair, pleased to hear that I’ll have something to do with my spare time. “What’s it pay?” 

She cocks her eyebrow. “Room and board. Your life.” 

“Ms. Adler, I know you’re not that cheap.” 

“Free night with one of my girls once a week. Or boys.” 

I roll my eyes. “False. Jim’d castrate me if I fucked a callgirl.” 

“Or boy.” 

“I’m not gay.” 

“You’re raising a child with a man, sleeping in his bed. . .” 

“You’re in love with Sherlock Holmes; does that make you straight?” 

“Touche.” She stares me down. The silence becomes heavier. 

“It’s a tempting offer, though,” I admit. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” 

She’s testing my resolve. 

She’s essentially offering me my old life, minus the assassinations. Look intimidating, beat money out of people, hunt dangerous animals, fuck prostitutes . . . all the things that I miss. And instead of being excited, I can only feel guilt, because I _want_ these things. I want to accept and enjoy what she’s offering--but wouldn’t a good father and husband ( _stop it, Moran, you’re not married_ ) be disappointed to be away from his family? Would he really be thrilled at the possibility of returning to the life he once knew? 

“When can I go back to them?” I find I’m dreading the answer. 

“I’d say three months. I’ve got an insider who will let me know. The Ice Man has more important things to do than listen in on conversations in a brothel. He’ll have his team move on shortly thereafter. No contact with Moriarty or his brat, though.” 

I grit my teeth. “That’s my brat, too, you know. Watch it.” 

“Or what? You’d hit a woman?” 

I laugh out loud. “Ms. Adler, I’ve killed women.” 

“And here I thought you were a good Catholic boy.” 

“I go to confession afterwards.” 

“Lucky for you, I keep a priest on staff.” 

“That seems uncharacteristic and bizarre.” 

“He’s my insider, actually. Pops in once a month or so. It’s a complicated web of connections, but suffice it to say, he keeps me informed of Mycroft’s doings, as well as other political goings-on. Father Henry Peter. The staff call him Holy Pete.” 

“Why would Holmes keep a priest around?” 

“There are rumors, of course, but no one really knows. Henry knows things, though. Funny how similar his line of work is to mine.” She smiles this evil smile. “People come to us to confess and find absolution.” 

“There’s a huge difference between making sure you’re right with the Lord and getting your arse whipped by a woman in spandex.” 

“Is there?” she challenges. 

“Yeah.” 

“Then I’d say you’re doing something wrong.” She winks. “Time’s up, Tiger. Off you get. Izzy’s downstairs in the foyer; she’s got some paperwork she needs you to sign.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL I WANT IS TO WRITE SMUTTY MORMOR AND THIS DAMNED PLOT (and Basher's fuckin' heterosexuality) KEEPS INTERFERING. 
> 
> Leave comments for +1 karma.


	18. And the Tiger Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Insert image of Linda Belcher saying, "He's all stunted inside like a big, dumb man."* That's it, that's the summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucc.
> 
> Also Holy Pete is Peter Lorre. Just know that. That's a thing. That is my head cannon.

Being away from Jim and Evelyn is pretty fucking awesome. Don’t get wrong; I miss them BUT--and that ‘but’ is worthy of capital letters--in my present situation, I get to hunt and kill feral pigs and this insanely aggressive bunch of tiger snakes that somehow keep finding their ways into the manor, get to threaten clients who ignore a safewords, refuse to pay, or get stalker-y, get to break noses and fingers. I get to speed alongside the Moreton Island coastline in Adler’s Vanquish Volante while I run errands. I get to flirt and be an arsehole with Irene’s girls. I get to play cards and gamble and literally and figuratively lose my shirt to Izzy. Who the fuck taught that woman to play poker? She’s like goddamn Rain Man.

It is fucking goddamn bloody great. Really. That first month, I even let one of the girls give me a makeover. I was incredibly drunk, and it was a slow night (Mondays usually are). Oh, and one frustrating/magical night, my discipline and dedication to my Jim were really tested. One of the new girls, a lithe, pale little thing with big hazel doe eyes, had never done a BDSM scene before. Since her client was an arsehole and Adler was busy, I got assigned to aftercare duty. 

A beautiful, blissed out girl stayed curled up on my lap while I fed her chocolate and applied some sort of cream to her bare, well-sculpted, very red bum. She was feminine and vulnerable and the opposite of Jim, and I wanted her. I wanted to take her back to her room and kiss her and fuck her slow and gentle. 

She didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask, and I had a nice little wank in the privacy of my own rooms afterwards. 

And that second month, I really got to be Sebastian Moran again. I drank whenever I wanted however much I wanted. I got massages twice a week at least because I fucking could. As long as I wasn’t on duty, there were no limits to what I could or couldn’t do. No monitoring Jim’s computer usage, no making sure Evelyn gets to practice on time. 

And then some bastard brought his preteen daughter with him to a session. When Irene told him that no one under the age of 25 (house-rules) was allowed on the premises, he said, “she just wants to watch.” 

Izzy and Adler and one the boys had to pull me off him. He left unserved and concussed, and the next week, once I was off-duty, I found that motherfucker on the mainland, and I stripped the skin from his bones while his bitch wife watched in terror. For the first time in over a year, I felt like I could take a deep breath. Washing the bastard’s blood off my hands and knife was like coming up for air after you dive too deep. I’d never realized the extent of which I liked killing until that moment. 

Unfortunately, February’s also when I begin having nightmares about Jim washing his hands until they no longer existed. They were just gone. In the light of day, it’s humorous, but in the dreams themselves, it is terrifying. I have dreams that I’m back in Jim’s old flat in Islington, sleeping in his overstuffed bed. Sometimes he’s beside me, sometimes he’s in his office, but Evelyn’s always having a nightmare. I always wake up before I can reach her room, and it’s so damn frustrating. 

One morning mid-March, Adler calls me into her office, the signal jammer already buzzing softly in the background lest the big bad Brits are listening in. 

“Good morning, Colonel.” She leans against her desk, her arms crossed. “Have a seat.” There’s a long silence in which she studies me. It’s a questioning technique that under normal circumstances, I can resist. In this instance though, I’m squirming in my chair before I’ve ever actually sat down. 

“What?” I finally ask. It takes a great deal of mental effort to keep eye contact. 

“Everything all right, tiger?” 

I don’t realize my jaw tightens at the pet name until she smirks. I look away. Easier to lie ( _wait, why is it a lie?_ ) when her eyes aren’t boring into mine. “Everything’s fine, _Ms_ Adler.” 

“Are you sure?” 

I jut my chin in the direction of her mobile. “Is the signal jammer on?” I ask just to be safe. 

“Of course.” 

“If you’re scolding me about Josiah Amberley, you best back up and rethink all of your misdeeds.” 

She gives me a tight smile. “I generally frown upon my staff murdering my customers, but as he was an incredibly unpleasant man, I’ve let it slide. I commend you for your clean up of the crime scene.” 

Accepting the compliment with a nod, I press, “So, why am I here, boss?” 

“You’re not eating.” 

I shrug. 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time away from the office.” 

“You send me on a lotta errands.” 

“You volunteer to do them.” 

“So?” 

“Why are you so eager to get away from the grounds?” 

I’m genuinely confused. “I’m not.” 

“Really?” 

I tilt my head. “Are you upset that I’ve not slept with any of your girls?” 

“I’m not upset at all.” 

“Then why the fuck did you call me in here?” 

She gives me that knowing smile. “You’re repressed. Stop.” 

“Oh my God, woman, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re _miserable_ here, tiger.” 

I do actually laugh out loud at that. “No, I’m really not. No, don’t give me that fucking look. I am not miserable here. I fucking love it here! Well, maybe not losing to Izzy every bloody night, but yeah, I’m happy here.” 

“Well, let’s see.” She retrieves her mobile and begins thumbing through an app. “This past week alone, you’ve walked the grounds until the early morning hours every single night. You’ve eaten perhaps two full meals total over the course of the week, but have managed to plow through a fifth of whiskey each night.” 

I shrug. “I’m a big boy, Ms. Adler.” 

She purses her lips. “Very well. Shall we get to the physical, then? Last month, you went to a massage therapist twice weekly for unexplained back pain and headaches. When the massages didn’t work, you started drinking heavily.” 

Something in my gut clenches. I try to remain cool. “I mean, I’d rather kill my liver with booze than acetaminophen.” 

Her gaze narrows. “You know what I mean.” 

A strange sensation in the back of my mind tells me that I do know what she means, but rationally and realistically, I am clueless. “No.” 

“Back pain and headaches are symptoms of depression. So is self-medicating with alcohol.” 

I laugh out loud at the suggestion and yet something feels heavy in my chest. It’s absurd. “I’m surrounded by booze and breasts, Ms. Adler. I am not depressed.” 

“Last night, Kitty and April _and_ Tommy walked past you completely nude. You didn’t even notice.” 

“There’s lotsa’ people running around here naked!” 

“Why are you getting defensive?” 

“Just because I don’t wanna fuck every person on your staff doesn’t make me depressed!” 

“You’re raising your voice.” 

“You’re not Sherlock Holmes! You can’t just diagnose me!” 

“No, I’m better than Sherlock Holmes because I don’t just _see_ , I understand.” 

I’m livid. I’m absolutely livid, and I have no idea why. “Go to hell.” 

“Oh but that’s not what you really want, Tiger. What you _really_ want is to be with your family.” 

“I AM HAVING A GREAT FUCKING TIME HERE!” I’m on my feet, towering over her, but she doesn’t even flinch. She stares back into my eyes, a placid smile painted across her face. 

“Let’s take inventory, shall we? You find any excuse to get off the property. Your back aches and your head hurts. You’re completely uninterested in sex with either sex. You can’t sleep, so you drink yourself into a stupor, and when that doesn’t work, you walk the grounds. I’d say you’re depressed.” 

The realization that she’s not fucking wrong hits me like a speeding lorry. 

I open my mouth several times to refute her points, to convince myself that I am not depressed, that I love where I am, but I can’t think of a single argument. I think about the girl I took care of after a scene; that had been almost two months ago. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a hangover. I think about the nightmares where Jim’s washed his hands into nothingness. I think about how fucking good it felt to separate Amberley’s skin from his bones, and I realize that it wasn’t _only_ because I enjoyed killing him. He abused his daughter. And now he won’t. 

By killing him, somehow I felt like I was protecting Evelyn. 

Jesus, Evelyn and Jim had bled into every aspect of my life. Everything that made me me was somehow tinged with them, and I can’t tell if they’re complementing those aspects or detracting from them. 

How the fuck could I be depressed with them and also be depressed here?! What the hell had become of my life? 

“You’re a big boy, Basher,” Irene purrs. “Use your words.” 

I have no idea. I thought I wanted this. I thought I wanted my old life back, and now that I have it, I just want to be with my family. 

I had a simple life once. I knew who I was and what I wanted. Love and hate were distinctly separate things, and there was only happiness or rage. Now, everything’s run together. I love Jim because of who he is, and I loathe him for what he’s asked of me. I love Evelyn because she’s my daughter, and I hate her because of her vulnerability. I was, I realize, satisfied to be with them, even if I was unhappy, and it seems so bizarre that that duality can exist. 

So what do I want? 

“I have no idea.” She’s silent again, compelling me to fill the room with speech. “I miss my family. I love them.” I shake my head. “But I’ve been fucking miserable since I gave up everything! What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just be happy?” 

“Welcome to the woman’s struggle--family or career? Public or private?” she smirks. “Really, Basher, it’s not an ‘either-or situation.’ You can still have your family and be an assassin.” 

“I can’t. I have to take care of Jim.” 

She tilts her head, waiting for elaboration. I don’t offer it. 

“How did Jim fake his death?” she asks. 

I smirk. “You ever see _The Sting_?” 

“No.” 

“It’s Jim’s favorite movie. At the end of the movie, Paul Newman’s character shoots Robert Redford’s in the back, only it’s part of the con. It’s done with blanks and red dye packets. Jim’s gotta lotta background in prop design, too, so creating an exploded brain isn’t too much of a stretch. Gotta few nasty burns on the roof of his mouth though.” I laugh at the memory of Jim telling me how he did it, how he’d gone to Dr. Yama specifically for some oral numbing medication only for Evelyn to insist on getting a check-up. 

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in a week, tiger.” 

“Fuck that, I was laughing at Tommy the other night.” 

“You were drunk. It doesn’t count.” 

I scratch my head. “When can I go home?” 

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure yet. Henry will be coming by sometime this week to give me an update.” 

“Have you heard from Jim?” 

She smirks. “He sent several thinly-veiled threats through the website pretending to be a client when I refused to tell him if I’d retrieved you or not.” 

Something warm explodes in my chest and my stomach flips. I think I might be blushing. I cover my mouth in case I’m smiling too broadly. “I have had fun here, for the record,” I tell her after a long silence. 

“Fun and happiness don’t always intersect. You can have fun constantly and still find yourself contemplating the end. That’s why addiction is so dangerous and damaging.” 

For the first time since Adler told me I couldn’t go home, I let myself think of Jim. Since Sherlock Holmes reappeared, Jim’s scent has changed. Whereas he once smelled of fancy-shmancy colognes and exotic soaps, he now smelled of chalk and toner and cheap hand soap and prescription-grade lotion because the poor bastard sometimes loses the war on obsessive hand-washing. And, since I’m being honest with myself, that makes me sad. His face looks gaunt and soulless, a constant reminder that he only eats when I wear him down, the bags under his eyes that he can’t sleep. 

I miss him. I miss the old Jim, the Batman-level-of-insanity, good-old-fashioned-villain Jim. I miss the over-protective, sitcom father Jim. I miss the current Jim who is depressed and obsessed and just barely keeping it together. Because Jim is multi-faceted, and all those aspects of his personality are still him, and even on his worst days I love him. 

I miss the small stretch of my fingers folded between his as we walk Evelyn to school. I miss the tapping on the counter while he waits for the kettle to boil. I miss the way he counts the steps up to our flat. I miss the way he smiles at Evelyn, like she’s the sole redeeming quality of the entirety of the universe, the way he nuzzles his head in my neck before the sedatives kick in, the way he glowers at me when I leave beer bottles on the coffee table. 

Adler claps her hands together. “Well, that’s enough of that.” She turns off the signal jammer on her phone. “You’re excused, Moran.” 

I furrow my eyebrows. “Wait, did you actually just call me in here to ask me if I missed my family?” How very un-Adlerian of her. 

“Of course not. I called you in here to tell you to stop being repressed and drinking all the time. It’s affecting morale. April was devastated you didn’t notice her new tattoo. Oh, also, stop flirting with Izzy. She’s mine, not yours.” 

~

_May 2015_

I get a text from Izzy to come to the reception desk. This usually means that a stalker-customer is being difficult, so I leave my treestand where I’m hunting these wild pigs. (I don’t know why the hell they keep coming to the grounds, but they do every few weeks or so. And, Christ, let me tell you, they are aggressive. Nothing in Australia is ever mild. Everything is “go big or go home.”) 

“Seb,” Izzy says before I’ve even opened the door. The distress in her voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. 

There’s a pale, waify thing of a woman who really looks more like a girl standing in front the reception desk. “Everything all right, Izzy?” I ask, coming to tower over the problem customer. The girl’s eyes bore into mine. I instantly hate her. Something’s wrong with her. Something is inherently wrong with this girl. About her. 

She shows no fear. 

I crack my neck, knowing that this won’t end without a fight. 

“She says she has an appointment with you?” Izzy offers, looking simultaneously terrified and confused. 

“Relax, babe, it’s fine.” I really do hate to see Izzy upset. “Who are you?” 

The girl’s face lights up, and she breathes, “The East Wind.” 

Chills run down my back, but I laugh to hide my discomfort. Never let ‘em see you sweat, after all. “That’s vague. What do you want?” 

“I know what you want.” 

Ugh, the sound of her voice is just. . . wrong. Her face is wrong, her posture is wrong, everything about her has me on edge. “All right love,” I growl, grabbing her arm, “that’s enough. Out you get.” 

Before I can drag her so much as an inch, her teeth are embedded in my upper arm. She tears away a good chunk of my skin, the ripping sound echoing in the reception room. Before it even occurs to me to shoot, I smash her head against Izzy’s desk. Izzy screams and the stranger smiles at me with my flesh and blood between her teeth, the skin purpling around the fresh gash on her forehead. The bite is certainly not the worst injury I’ve ever sustained, and her grin is certainly not the goriest sight I’ve ever seen, but it unnerves me, the way Jim used to unnerve me. 

She spits the carnage at my chest then tilts her head. “Tiger?” 

My blood runs cold. I smash her head against the desk again. She doesn’t even yelp. 

Irene bursts from her office and leaps down the steps to her lover’s side. She clutches her close, putting her body between the blood and Izzy’s. “What the hell is going on?” 

The stranger answers, “I have Evelyn.” 

The world goes silent. My body erupts, and I cease to exist. 

I come back to myself to find my knife digging into the woman’s throat, her blood and my blood flowing over her neck and shoulder as I demand to know just what the fuck she’s talking about. Adler and Izzy and a few of the staff who’ve appeared stare at the blood that’s starting to pool on the ceramic tiled flooring. 

“Colonel,” Adler snaps, “let her go.” 

I laugh because i’ve literally never heard anything more ridiculous in my entire life. I press the knife a little deeper. “Squeal you little bitch.” 

“Colonel! If she has what she says she does, who’s to say it’s not in danger?” 

“WHERE’S EVELYN?” 

The stranger just giggles and begins a high-pitched song. “ _’Neath the hyoid bone is the thyrohyoid muscle and the suprahyoid node and you can bleeeeeed and bleeeeeed all over the floor . . ._ ” 

I’m vaguely aware that Irene’s calling someone on her mobile. The police? Good, the more witnesses, the merrier, right? “Do you have my daughter?” 

“ _. . . cauterize the artery . . ._.” She stretches her neck to look back at me. “I know where your family is now.” 

“Fucking bitch.” I toss her to the ground and take aim. 

“SEBASTIAN MORAN!” Irene shouts, and it’s enough to keep me from pumping the strange woman full of lead. 

The woman stares up at me, drawing a smiley face with her blood on the toe of my shoe. “I know where your family is now, so you have to leave mine alone.” She giggles again. 

“Hurry Henry,” Irene says into the phone and then ends the call. 

The woman’s eyes darken, and she slowly turns her head to look at Irene. “What?” 

Irene straightens her spine so she’s as tall as possible. She looks like a tigress threatening an intruder. She stalks toward the woman on the floor, staring her down. “Father Henry Peter knows you’re here, Eurus.” 

Eurus? Why was that name familiar? 

I don’t have much time to think about the name before she lunges at Adler. I pull her off before she can inflict much damage. “You tell me where my daughter is, you little bitch.” 

She shrieks bloody murder, struggling against me, twisting about like something from _The Exorcist_. 

To my surprise, Adler grabs her face, positively oozing dominance as she says gently, “You will cooperate, Eurus, or your darling big brother will also learn where you’ve been.” She instantly stops squirming. “Clear out, everyone,” Irene says to her employees. “I know you’ve plenty of work to do.” 

When it’s just the dominatrix, the stranger, and myself, Adler asks, “Eurus?” 

I can’t see it because she’s still trapped against me, but I can feel Eurus scowl. “That’s not my name.” 

“It is your name, precious. Come now, be a good girl and tell me where Evelyn is.” 

Eurus cackles. “I’m _not_ a good girl.” 

Adler smiles, one of her genuine smiles that is somehow comforting and disarming. “No, I suppose not, but Henry tells me you’re very clever. Even moreso than your brothers.” 

Something about Eurus changes drastically. She relaxes against me. I could probably let her go, but I don’t. 

“Can you tell me how you hijacked all those newstations and radiowaves and made everyone think that Moriarty was still alive?” 

Eurus laughs again, but it’s less evil this time. “No.” 

“It was very impressive.” 

Eurus giggles. “It _was_ very impressive. Just wait ‘til the game is over. It’ll be even better.” 

“You’re a bit of a show-off,” Adler says fondly. “Just like your brother.” 

Eurus’ voice gets dark again. “I am _nothing_ like either of them.” 

Adler reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “No, you’re not, are you?” 

“They’re on the side of the angels.” 

My eyes widen, and the memory of Jim shooting himself in the mouth on the rooftop comes rushing back. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” 

Adler shushes me. “She’s our guest, Sebastian.” 

“WHY DO YOU HAVE MY DAUGHTER?” 

“To send a message.” 

“I’ll kill you!” 

“Sebastian!” The sound of a cocking gun pulls me out of my attempt to snap Eurus’ neck. 

I stare at the weapon in Adler’s hand. 

“Eurus, did you kill Evelyn?” Adler asks evenly. 

Eurus snakes her way out of my grasp. “Of course not.” 

“Then where is she?” 

“You have to let me go first.” 

“Let you go?” I scoff. 

“If Father Peter gets here before I leave, Basher, I will be quite cross.” 

“Oh you’ll be cross, will you?” I taunt. “I’m shaking in my boots.” 

“I will cut your heart out of your chest and feed it to your little brat.” 

Before I can kill the little bitch, Adler excuses me. It’s only when she hands me her mobile phone, whispers the code to me and promises that she’ll have Evelyn to me in ten minutes, that I leave. 

~

Evelyn’s limbs are around me before I fully open the door to Adler’s office, and I can feel tears seep through the fabric of my shirt. 

Imagine a glass ball shattering when it hits the floor, the impact causing the pieces to release, gravity, molecules, and atoms unable to keep it together. That’s how I feel. And it wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling; just overwhelming. I hadn’t been away from Evelyn for this length of time for at least two years. 

I press kisses to every inch of her that I can reach, humming at how complete I feel to have her near, how much more powerful I feel to have her in my arms. It takes me a while to realize she’s sobbing. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whimper, “tell me what’s wrong. What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” 

Evelyn buries her face against my neck and sobs and shakes her head. 

My heart sinks. I pull her back and set her on Adler’s desk. “Did she hurt you, Evey? Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Did she give you anything?” 

Evelyn looks up at me with huge, wet eyes and shakes her head again. Even so, I examine her arms and legs and neck. “Did she give you anything, baby? Any water? Candy?” 

Evelyn shakes her head again, stifling her sobs. 

“What happened, baby? Tell me what happened.” 

“I don’t know. I got called to the office at school.” She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. Adler, who I completely forgot existed, hands me a box of tissue. 

“Here, love, hey, blow.” She clears her nose. Adler makes a sound of disgust, so I throw the used tissue at her. “Who called you to the office?” 

“I don’t know. Mrs. Gareth said I needed to go to the principal’s office, so I did. And then there was that woman. And I told Dr. Munoz that I didn’t know her, but he didn’t listen. He said I had to go with her.” 

Well, Dr. Munoz just bought himself a bullet through his skull, that’s for damn sure. 

“And,” Evey starts to hyperventilate, “and and . . .” 

I pull her to my chest, squeezing her tightly to me. “Hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you. Tell me what happened.” 

“The lady said she’d kill Daddy if I tried to get away.” She explodes into loud, wailing sobs and it absolutely breaks my heart. “I was scared.” 

“You know what, sweetheart? Papa smashed her head against the desk. Twice. There’s no way in hell she woulda’ killed your Daddy.” 

Evelyn isn’t comforted by this. I let her cry against my chest for a long while, shushing her and rocking her. I wish I knew more about kids and their psychology. I wish I knew how to make this better. 

I retrieve Adler’s phone from my pocket to search the internet for advice. Adler snatches it away before I can type anything in. I scowl at her. 

“But you weren’t there,” Evey says softly. 

Actual tears sting my eyes, and no amount of confession or absolution can ever take away the guilt that weighs on me the moment I realize that I’ve inadvertently betrayed Evelyn. I’ve betrayed my little family. This wouldn’t’ve happened if I’d been there. 

“Oh sweetheart, I am so sorry. I am so sorry that I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” 

She shakes her head no. 

“That’s ok, sweetheart, you don’t have to. I love you so much. And I’ve missed you so much. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” 

“Your papa has been miserable without you,” Adler tells Evelyn. “But he had to stay here with me.” 

“Is she your husband?” Evelyn asks me, looking terrified. 

“No, baby, no, absolutely not.” 

“Some families have a mummy and a daddy.” 

“Yeah, but ours don’t, does it? It’s got two daddies, right?” 

“But you were gone.” 

I can’t reason with her right now. She feels betrayed and scared and reason and pragmatism mean nothing to a frightened six year old. “I didn’t wanna be, baby girl. And I’m never gonna be gone ever again, I promise.” 

She squeezes me tight. “I’m mad at you.” 

“I know, baby. That’s fair. But I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.” 

“Kick Dr. Munoz,” she pouts. Holy God, she is so much like Jim when she pouts. 

“Oh, love, I’m gonna kick his ass,” I promise. She laughs at the affected Texas accent. “Didn’t Daddy tell you I’d be back?” 

Evelyn half-nods, reaching for another tissue to blow her nose. (And I’m so proud of her. She’s such an independent little lady. She doesn’t need to be handed tissues; she can get her own damn tissues, even if she is scared and traumatized.) 

“And you didn’t believe him?” 

She shrugs, blowing her nose again. 

“I’ll always come back to you and Daddy, okay?” 

Evelyn shrugs. 

“I missed you Papa.” 

“I missed you too. You don’t even know how much I missed you.” Evelyn clings to me and cries some more. “When can we go home, Ms. Adler?” 

“I’m not sure, unfortunately. Henry should be here this evening.” 

“Where’s that crazy bitch?” 

Evelyn chuckles through her tears at the word “bitch.” 

Adler shrugs. 

“You let her go?” 

“There’s quite a few connections at play here, tiger. A lot of cocked guns at a lot of heads. Your first instinct may be murder, but while my business is in the mix, you follow my lead and lay low.” 

~

Try as she might, Adler can’t keep Izzy away from Evelyn. Apparently Izzy is ready to settle down and have kids; Adler hates them. Izzy’s been giving her girlfriend bitter glances all afternoon. 

If I’m honest, I don’t like Evelyn being around prostitutes. It’s a whole section of my life that I don’t want her to even be aware of. Which I suppose is a complete turn around from drugging Evelyn with a call girl back a few years ago. When April is on break, she comes to my room to meet Evelyn. 

I immediately throw a robe on her, because no, it’s not appropriate to just come into my room with just a bra and panties on. She scoffs. “We’re both girls!” 

Tommy is right behind her. I drag him into the hall. “No way!” I hiss. “You smell like sex.” 

“What? No I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do!” 

“But I wanna see her! I love kids!” 

“Go take a shower! And wear something appropriate. That means no ‘Slut’ shirts!” 

He crosses his arms and calls me a prude. I literally kick his arse, shooing him away. 

April is braiding Evelyn’s hair when I come back into the room. “I’ve got some hair relaxer in my room, Evey. Would you like for me to do your hair?” 

Evelyn furrows her brow. “You are doing my hair?” 

April splashes her silky blond hair against Evelyn’s cheek, and I tense up. “But I could make your hair like mine!” 

“No, absolutely not!” I tug April off my bed. “No.” 

“Crikey, what is your problem?” 

“You can’t just come into my room without any clothes on and try to whitewash my daughter.” 

“I’m not tryna whitewash her!” 

“Evey, sweetheart, you like your curls and your braids, don’t you?” 

Evelyn nods. 

“Besides, Jim doesn’t want to introduce those kindsa’ chemicals to her. It’s important that she embraces her natural hair.” 

“Jesus, tiger, calm down. I just thought it’d be fun. You let me do your make-up.” 

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Evelyn tells her. 

I beam. “You tell her, baby girl.” 

Evelyn puffs out her chest, sitting up as tall as possible. “I’m not a baby. I’m big and strong.” 

“You absolutely are. My apologies. But you’ll always be my baby girl.” 

“Even when I’m ten?” 

“Even when you’re graduating from university.” 

“What if I grow a mustache?” 

“Even then.” 

Evelyn turns her attention to April, who is still wrapped in my robe. “How old are you? 

“Twenty-seven.” 

She looks back to me. “Even when I’m twenty-seven?” 

“Always. You’ll always, always, always be my baby girl.” 

“What if I killed somebody?” 

I snort. “Evey sweetheart, if you only knew.” 

~

Father Henry “Holy” Peter is a short, balding man with olive skin and pale green eyes that dart about the room. True to his epithet, he wears the traditional priest garb, but nothing about him appears Holy or righteous and I instantly hate him. Inherently, something about him mocks everything that I believe in. 

Granted, I murder people and am living in sin with another man, but I also haven’t dedicated my life to the Lord’s service. 

I refuse to let Evelyn out of my sight, so around 4:00 a.m., Irene, Holy Pete and myself are gathered around the diminutive little desk in my room, a bottle of Jameson and three shot glasses in the center. Pete helps himself, jutting his jaw in the direction of my bed where Evelyn is sound asleep. “She’s a pretty heavy sleeper?” 

“Not really. You’ll need to speak quietly.” 

Adler glares at me for my clippedness. Pete just grins. “You don’t like me, do you, Colonel?” 

I shrug. “No.” 

“Pity that. I’ve been a fan of your work for a very long time.” 

“Are you threatening me?” 

He shakes his head, his smile fading. “No, no, not at all. If I can ever get out from under Holmes’s thumb, I’d love to come work for M.” 

“M?” 

“Moriarty, of course.” 

“Moriarty is dead.” I check over my shoulder to ensure that Evelyn is asleep. 

He downs his shot and refills the glass. “Oh is that so? I just spoke with him a few hours ago.” 

“Woah, what?” 

“Let me give you, oh what is it the kids call these days, the, uh, the full disclosure. For the last five years, Eurus Holmes has been planning to murder her brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock. It’s a game she played with Moriarty. Who can burn the heart of Sherlock Holmes? Now, I am the priest at Sherrinford, the ‘hospital’ where she is kept. She’s very smart, you see. Very smart. And violent. And bitter. Oh, very bitter. The run of the mill violent sociopaths don’t go to Sherrinford, you understand. It’s for the crazies so crazy they have to be taken off the grid.” 

“If that’s true,” I clarify because I absolutely do not believe him, “why would a place like that need a priest?” 

“It helps, sometimes. Before an execution one of the crazies will want to confess, sometimes I can serve as a go-between, et cetera, et cetera. They keep me there because I know things. I learn things. People love to talk to me. I was a prisoner there for a decade or so. Under false pretenses, of course, but I stayed to offer my services.” His smile indicates that that’s untrue and he knows that everyone knows that that’s not true. 

“So, you’re a double agent?” 

“Tsk tsk tsk that sounds so dirty. Like I don’t have any loyalty. I have plenty of loyalty. Just to several people and causes with conflicting interests. Anyway, Eurus thought that Moriarty was dead, which is really saying something. However, she tracked some information that some hackers uncovered that suggested the great Moriarty was still alive. She, of course, sold this information to Magnussen so that he could hold it over Mycroft, because she simply loves to torture him. She withholds information, teases him for being slower than she; very, very fucked up family dynamics.” 

“Why would she even have access to a computer?” 

“The boy’s an idiot, Mistress!” Holy Pete hisses at Irene. “She’s brilliant! Two minutes on the internet and she can work miracles, piecing together covert ops, planned terrorist attacks, top secret recipes, et cetera, et cetera. She gives Mycroft information sometimes, sometimes she withholds it. She gives him just enough information that the benefits outweigh the risk. 

“Anyway, she lost track of Moriarty after he moved to Australia, but then she saw the odd purchase for three seats on a flight to London just after Magnussen was shot. So of course, she assumed it was Moriarty, come to murder her brother. Eurus hates to lose though. She’s been planning this murder for years, and it’s not all put together yet--she’s got lots to do but she’s gained access to the outside world and she’s armed with some footage that Moriarty gave her.” 

“Why would Jim give her anything?” 

“Because she was in a prison cell. It was hardly fair to start the game with her completely empty-handed.” 

“Wait, so they’ve actually met?” 

“Of course! No alcohol for you, boy, you’re too slow as it is.” He pulls the bottle closer to himself, helping himself to a third shot. “To continue the story, she stopped Moriarty from killing her brother by making everyone in London think he was still alive. Of course, he escaped London--you didn’t, but he did, so noble of you--and so she had to keep looking. And she finally traced some information to Dr. Addison O’Neill in Brisbane, which is how she retrieved little Emma there.” 

“Evelyn.” 

“What?” 

“Her name is Evelyn.” 

“Oh, I don’t care,” he says earnestly. “I hate children. Always have. That’s why so many of them kept ending up in the well near the church. Anyway, because the “Miss Me?” footage is old, Mycroft doesn’t believe that Moriarty lives. Now, she could tell him that he is, but that means revealing that she’s been naughty, brainwashing the guards, getting in and out of Sherrinford, using the computers there to make things happen. If Mycroft finds out about all that, he’ll take away five years of what she’s been working toward: her freedom and Sherlock’s death.” 

“So you’re her handler?” 

“I suppose. I technically work for Mycroft, so I can stop her at any point. She’d kill me of course, there’s no doubt, but once I put Mycroft on her scent, he’ll catch up fast and it will all be over. He only keeps her alive because she can benefit MI-6. If she became too much of a liability, he would end her.” 

“So, why do you work with Irene?” 

“I keep her informed. Mycroft still sees her as a threat.” 

“So Mycroft tells you things?” 

“He asks me to do things and I do them. He hates leg work. I find out things in the meantime for my other friends.” 

“So why did Adler call you?” 

“Here’s the deal, pussycat. I protect Adler from Mycroft and get information to her. I keep Mycroft informed of what some of the other inmates tell me. I keep Eurus’s operations a secret from Mycroft. Eurus wants Moriarty to stay away from her family while she works. So, she threatens you and Jim by kidnapping Eustace.” 

“Evelyn.” 

“Whatever. What she didn’t know until today was that I work for Adler. So, when she interferes with you, she interferes with Adler, and when she interferes with Adler, she interferes with me, and I can always go to Mycroft and ruin her plans.” 

“Why not just kill you?” 

“I get her things. A nice Air Macbook here and there. Untraceable phonecards. You know, that sort of thing. I’m the only one technically allowed on and off the island. But it is kind of a good thing, you know. The only reason she could come here is because Mycroft’s moved on. She knew he was tracking your movements, so she was watching him. And now that he’s let up, it was no problem for her to come here.” 

“Why not just kill Jim?” 

“She tried. Poison. Didn’t work.” 

“When?” 

“Last year. Sometime in March.” 

“I thought you said she lost track of him?” 

“Oh she did. But Magnussen didn’t. He wouldn’t give up your location because it was beneficial for him to know where you were, but she made a deal with him. She would tell him all about Sherlock’s dead friend Victor Trevor if he would poison Moriarty. Most likely the food he ate on the flight to Australia.” 

I blink stupidly. “Why the fuck does everyone want to know everything about Sherlock Holmes? Seriously. He’s not even the smartest Holmes. His mum’s pretty smart, isn’t she?” 

Pete shrugs. “I don’t know, Moran. But people love him. I don’t understand it either, but it’s certainly been helpful to me.” 

“But this is good news, Sebastian,” Adler interjects. “It means that you can finally go home.” 

Warmth blooms in my chest and I try to hide the smile creeping across my face. I look over to Evelyn, a mess of hair and blankets, watching her breathe in and out. God, she is so perfect. 

I turn my attention back to the priest. “How do I know you won’t come after us? How do I know Eurus won’t come after us?” 

“I need you to know something, and this is very important. I want Eurus Holmes gone. Out of my life.” He says this with no emotion whatsoever. “Poof. But until she’s gone, I’m trapped under her thumb just as much as she is mine. I want her dead.” 

“So you want me to kill her?” 

“Well, yes, but more than that, I want to come work for Moriarty.” 

“He’s out of commission.” 

Pete smiles wildly. “He can’t stay that way for long; especially if Eurus fails at killing her brother. Besides, I have reason to believe he’s been active in certain underground circles.” 

Rage runs through me. “What?” 

“Small things, here and there. I hear things, I see things. I was just on his campus the other day. When he worked in Dublin, he had a very specific recipe for a blend of cocaine, vyvanse, and a delayed-release lorazepam. He marketed it to architect students specifically. Why architects? No idea. Anyway, that specific product appears to making its way onto the campuses of eastern Australia.” 

“Goddamnit, Jim.” 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, such language.” 

“Shut up. What do you want?” 

“When Mr. Moriarty is resurrected, I want in on his operations. I want to be first in line. Give him my card, if you would please. I’ll wait to hear from him as evidence that he’s received it. In the meantime, I will keep Eurus away from your family.” 

I think it over. I offer my hand. When he takes it, I crush his hand, pulling him closer. “If anything happens to my family, if I have even the slightest reason to believe you’re not keeping your end of the bargain, if I so much as see someone who looks like a Holmes, I will cut you open, puncture on of your lungs, wait for it to fill with fluid and watch you die.” 

Fear flashes across his face, but the smile reappears just as quickly. “I would expect nothing less from a family man.” 

~

The moment I open the door to our flat, everything feels right. Cool air that smells faintly of lavender and cinnamon and that brand of silence that is specific to Jim burst over the threshold to greet me. Everything falls into place. It’s like looking at one of those optical illusions where the picture only makes sense if you look at it from one particular angle. 

Being here is my perfect angle. The image of my life makes sense. 

Jim stumbles out of his bedroom, still in his pyjamas, and it’s clear that he is well beyond buzzed but not quite at the level of shit-faced. He hides it fairly well, but his eyes are glassy and there’s a sway in his gait that’s not usually there. 

It’s a little after noon on Tuesday, so there’s no reason for him to be drunk or at the flat, but he is both, and I’m insanely happy to see him. 

Evelyn runs to him, clutching the spoils she’s bringing home from the whorehouse, because what child doesn’t need muffins baked by prostitutes? “Daddy! Daddy, guess what?!” 

He collapses to his knees, pulling her in for a desperate hug, his eyes shut tight as he nuzzles his face against her hair. “Angel. Are you all right?” He pulls back to get a look at her. The panic hitting him, he begins examining her arms and legs and neck. “What happened? Did she hurt you?” 

Evelyn huffs back, “Daddy, that was so yesterday! Guess what I did today?!” 

He ducks his head, trying to look in her mouth. “What, sweetheart? Say ‘aaahh’.” 

She clamps her mouth shut, and judging by Jim’s smirk, she’s scowling at him. “Daddy,” she warns through clenched teeth. 

“What, princess, what did you do today?” 

“I got to drive!” 

Jim’s eyes find me leaning against the doorway of the flat. “She didn’t actually drive. She sat on my lap while I drove.” 

“That is incredibly dangerous,” Jim snaps. 

“It was just while we were on the backroads on Moreton.” I grin. “Come here, kitten.” I want Jim. I want him so much. I want to kiss him and fuck him and bite him and make him laugh and hold him. 

His shoulders droop, and with the speed and grace of a sober man, he pounced, his arms snaking around my neck, his body pressed against mine. And for the first time, I’m the one who kisses with desperation and need and all-around manic energy. My fist curls in the hair on the back of his head and I can taste the burn of alcohol on his tongue. 

I can’t break free. Or rather, I don’t have the willpower to break away from him. You know that feeling when you take a drink of water and then you realize how thirsty you are and then you just can’t stop gulping it down? 

He moans against me, and in turn, I guess I get more handsy, because the next thing I know, Jim is gripping my wrist and whispering, “Maybe not in front of Evelyn.” 

“I missed you.” I am growling at him, and I feel like an idiot that I’m so overwhelmed about being back here. “I missed you so much.” 

He looks back at me with wide, almost innocent eyes, his lips wet and red and parted ever so slightly. He’s debating returning the sentiment. 

“It’s okay,” I reassure him. Mainly because I’m afraid of what he might say. He might say he missed me too. He might not mean it. I’d prefer omission over whatever wonderful or terrible truth he offers. I kiss his temple. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” 

“My daughter was kidnapped.” 

“So you just drank all morning?” 

“And all night.” 

“Why didn’t you just take the lorazepam?” 

He opens his mouth to explain, then looks horrified. “I had a reason, but I’ve completely forgotten it.” 

I laugh and press another kiss to his lips. 

“Evelyn don’t go into there!” Jim suddenly shouts as she makes her way to the loo. 

“What? Why?” 

“Use the upstairs one.” 

“No!” 

“Yes ma’am! Go!” 

Evelyn stomps up the steps. “Fine!” 

“Why can’t she go up there?” 

Jim snuggles beneath my chin. The feeling of his breath on my neck is so painfully comforting. “I killed Dr. Munoz in there.” 

“That’s a good reason.” I kiss the top of his head. “Is he still in there?” 

“Yep.” 

“How bad is it?” 

“We’re not going to be getting our deposit back.” 

The fact that he says “we’re” and “our” instead of “I’m” and “my” makes my heart skip a beat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is wrong. 
> 
> I will definitely rewrite this at some point in my life.
> 
> Click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600295) for what happens between this chapter and the next. (It's just fluff leading to sex. Basher and Jim have to work through their bedroom issues.)


	19. Live Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basher and Jim rebuild the empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, alcohol really does help me write. I don't know why. I've probably gotta problem. I'm just saying, I totally get why so many of the greats drank so much. It really helps the words come, you know? But Jim is a little OOC. I'm sorry. I mean, I feel like it's out of character for him to want Basher around anyway. But then Andrew Scott always plays him as being "lonely" and that's where this whole idea started. I don't know. I'm sorry if Jim isn't in character. I am. 
> 
> I hope this works. 
> 
> Maybe it doesn't. 
> 
> Henry Peter is Peter Lorre. Like, please, you have to read what he says in his voice. Otherwise, everything he says seems like utter nonsense. PETER LORRE, okay?

_June 2015_

I’m watching particles of sunlight creep into the bedroom and splash over Jim’s face. He stirs a little when they get too close to his eyes, but otherwise he’s still sleeping peacefully, curled up on one side, facing away from me. 

We had a good chat last night. And pretty good sex, if I do say so myself. I think maybe I’ve gotten past the resentment, and he’s gotten past the fear of abandonment. Even with the flood of sentimentality and declarations of love, I know it’s a good idea to not touch Jim while he’s sleeping. I want to, though. I want to run my fingers through his hair, and I want to pull him against me. I’m resigned to watching him sleep for awhile. When did I become so boring? 

One eye pops opens, catches sight of me, and Jim groans. “Sharing a bed again, are we?” He snuggles deeper beneath the covers, hiding from the sun. 

I fish him out and meld my body against the curve of his back. I press a kiss to his cheek. He groans again but doesn’t fight me. “Go close the curtains.” He points limply at the sunshine flickering in between the slats in the blinds. 

“No.” 

He grimaces. “Ugh, morning breath. At least rinse your mouth out before slobbering all over me.” He covers his face with the comforter again. We’re quiet again. He settles against me. 

“Jim?” 

“Hm?” 

“If you’re going to sell drugs, I want in.” 

“Fuck’s sake, not this again,” he grumbles. 

“I mean it, kitten.” 

He tosses the blanket off of his face and rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Is this about money?” 

“No, and it’s not because I feel emasculated, it’s not because I’m bored. I want in because our lives are irreparably intertwined now.” 

“So?” 

“So, I want to be apart of every aspect of your life, regardless of what it entails.” 

“Codependence, then. You want me to be dependent on you.” 

“No.” I prop myself up on my elbow. “Do you remember when Susan started cycling?” 

“Who?” 

“Our neighbor in Texas. The lesbian baptist?” 

“Right.” 

“Susan started cycling and Amber hated it, but she did it with Susan because she wanted to be apart of her life.” 

Jim blinks. “Selling hard drugs and riding a bicycle are two very different hobbies.” 

God, he’s so fucking irritating when he’s being obtuse. “Fine, you wanna be a little bitch about, that’s fine. We’ll come at it a different way. Why is it so important to keep me out of that part of your life?” 

He goes stiff and silent and stares at the ceiling. I wait. More silence. I roll over onto my back. We lay like that for a long while. 

“To be clear,” he finally says, “this is _not_ pillow talk.” 

“Okay.” 

“Nor is it an invitation to discuss my ‘feelings’ or my ‘backstory’ or whatever else you may have romanticized about me.” 

“Okay.” 

“Take what I’m about to say the way that it is intended. Do you understand, tiger?” 

“Okay.” 

“It’s always just been me. I’ve had hired hands, and I’ve had underlings, but at the end of the day, it’s always just been me.” 

“You had partners.” 

“I had people I worked with and then killed.” 

“Why did you kill them?” 

“Because I like it being just me.” 

I let that settle over us. “So why’d you adopt Evey?” 

“I told you,” he says curtly. “She was perfect.” 

“I think you were lonely, kitten.” 

He lets out a roar and shoots out of the bed. “Good God, what did I just tell you about romanticizing me? Where’s my robe?” 

I manage to grab his hand and pull him back to the bed, still naked as the day he was born. “Calm down, kitten, we’re just talking.” 

“I’m not so pedestrian to get _lonely_.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m not!” 

“I believe you.” 

“No, you don’t!” 

I shush him and maneuver him back beneath the blankets. We’ve essentially swapped sides now. I nuzzle into the crook of his neck. I feel the small hairs rise over his body as he shivers. 

“It’s not been ‘just you’ for, what, six years now.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“And I’ve been around for, what, four years now.” 

He snorts. “Comin’ ‘round once a month doesn’t count.” 

My voice gets a little sterner. “When in the last ten years have you ever needed me that I wasn’t right there, eh?” 

“You can’t count at least four of those years. You were just on my payroll.” 

I sigh. I thought we were past this now, but apparently I was wrong. I roll out of the bed, feeling more than a little stupid. I throw on my trousers and open the bedroom door to get breakfast started. 

“You’re just going to give up that easily?” 

I shrug. “‘S’all I got, Jim.” 

He sits up, clearly unimpressed. “You spend all week trying to get a leg over, but you can’t spare ten minutes to get in on a scheme.” 

I half-smile. “I shouldn’t have to fight my way into a place in your life that doesn’t involve our daughter. Just like I shouldn’t’ve had to spend a week trying to seduce my boyfriend.” 

He whines, flopping back down beneath the sheets. “You’re just _so_ bad at sex, Basher.” 

I growl at him. “You are literally the only person who has ever complained, you weird little fuck.” 

“You wanna know who the _best_ I’ve ever had was?” 

A cold sweat washes over me. _Please don’t say Magnussen. Please don’t say Magnussen._ “No I fucking don’t.” 

He peers out from the blankets again, grinning at my discomfort. “Guess.” 

“No.” 

“Come on, tiger, play with me.” He crawls out of the covers to the edge of the bed, giving me those flaming, painfully intense bedroom eyes that I never know are sincere. I get the vague notion that Jim is flirting with me, as in legitimately flirting in his weird “violate-me” way. Is he trying to get me mad so that I’ll get violent? The thought makes me a little ill. “Guess.” 

“Jim, I don’t wanna play.” 

“Guess, tiger. Guess, guess, guess,” he chants. 

In defeat, I offer up, “Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Wrong.” He wags his arse playfully, then rolls over onto his belly, his head hanging off the foot of the bed. 

I sigh. “Mycroft Holmes.” 

He scowls. “Ugh, no! You’re not even trying.” He actually looks like a kitten trying to entice its human to play. 

“I don’t know! Who?” 

“One more guess. Come on, just one more guess.” 

“Er . . . that one surgeon.” 

“Um, no, that would be like fucking a can of off-brand vanilla icing.” He sits up on his knees and motions me over. “Come here, come here, come here.” With some hesitation, I obey, and he rests his arms around my hips. He’s fucking manic and crazy and I know he’s toying with me, but we had such a good night last night, and it’s so nice to be so close, I let myself get lured in. 

“The best I’ve ever had,” he says slowly and begins stroking my chest, “is…” 

My heart is actually starting to race a little bit. I don’t know if it’s jealousy or the hope that maybe, just maybe, the answer is me. 

“...Irene Adler.” 

“FUCK’S SAKE, JIM!” I shove him backward, using the momentum to get the hell out of dodge. “A goddamn woman??” 

“Don’t swear! Evelyn might be awake!” He’s smiling like the Cheshire Cat, proud of himself for flustering me so. “Come here, tiger.” He gets off the bed, reaching for me. 

“No, don’t touch me.” I jerk out of his reach and make my way to the kitchen. A minute or so later, he emerges, still beaming like a cat-eating canary, dressed in his overly luxurious robe. 

“C’mon, tiger,” he purrs, almost sounding condescending. “Sometimes you just need someone to tie you down and ignore your safeword.” 

Ugh. I hate it when he says things like that. I know that Jim is Jim, and he probably just appeared one day as an adult male to wreak havoc upon the Earth, but I sometimes I wonder if he was abused. If he can’t differentiate between affection and abuse. And see, I remember. I remember how much I _loathed_ my father. How much I hated my mother for being so goddamn weak, for letting it happen over and over again. How powerless little Sebastian felt when his father called him to the basement. 

And the fact that Jim sees that as a good thing . . . just doesn’t set right with me. It makes me cringe. 

And the bastard is revelling in my discomfort. 

But you know what? I’ve said it before--James Moriarty has shown his belly, and I can turn the goddamn tables. 

I soften my features, locking my eyes on his. We’re both still as I stare into those black eyes until I can make out the edges of even darker pupils. The beginnings of confusion fall around his features. He tries to determine my motives as I lift him up and set him on the counter before me, spreading his legs so that I fit neatly between his thighs. 

I coax one of his wayward locks back into place, intentionally ghosting my fingertips over the back of his neck, making him shiver. I cup his face. His breath hitches. My thumb traces over his bottom lip. 

The eye contact gets to be too much for him and he averts his eyes. It’s a victory for me. I’ve made the Consulting Criminal uncomfortable. 

“I think, Mr. Moriarty,” I lean in closer, and his eyes nearly close, his gaze focused on my mouth, “that you’re trying to provoke me. I think you _want_ me to take you back to your fancy oversized bed and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.” I barely touch my lips to his for the shortest of moments. He’s holding his breath. 

_Haha, you manipulative wanker._

He parts his lips, anticipating a real kiss. I stroke his bottom lip again, making him wait. “But, Jim, you don’t have to provoke me.” 

My hands slide up his thighs and I hear the small sound of a whimper catch in his throat. “All you have to do is ask.” A small kiss to the corner of his mouth. “All you have to do is ask,” another kiss to the opposite corner, “and I’ll take you back to your bed.” A firmer kiss against his mouth. “And I’ll massage your thighs and suck your fingers and kiss your neck until you’re ready and then I’ll do everything in my power to touch all those good sensitive spots, to make you tingle all over, until you just . . .” 

He pounces, tugging my hair to bring me in for a fierce kiss. “Don’t play with me, Tiger!” I chuckle against his lips because it’s about bloody time I got a victory in our ongoing game of Gay Chicken. “I’m still the boss, you arsehole,” he grumbles against my lips. 

I hum my assent. 

“I mean it!” 

He tries to affect my pace, my intensity, but I don’t let him. I stroke his back while he kisses me with disproportionate urgency and frustration. I stroke his cock beneath the robe, pleased at his eagerness. He keens, slowing and softening his onslaught on my lips. 

“I’m in charge,” he pouts between kisses. 

“Always, kitten.” 

“I mean it,” he repeats. 

“I know.” 

“Stop jerking me off in the kitchen.” He tries to sound fierce and dominating, like it’s a hierarchy and not a (admittedly unhealthy) loving relationship. “Take me back to my room. And actually fucking try this time, eh?” 

I give his thigh an affectionate squeeze. “You gonna let me work with you on your little side projects?” 

He groans again, knocking his head against my collar bone. “I’m the boss!” 

“Always, boss.” 

“And you do what I tell you.” 

“‘Course.” 

“It’s not you and me, understand? It’s just me. And then you. In the background. Watching Evelyn.” 

~~

_August 2015_

“I’m not wearing the sunglasses,” I tell Jim as I look myself over in the mirror. 

“And just why the hell not?” he hisses, careful not to wake Evelyn. 

“Because the sun’s been down for three hours.” 

“It’s Florida. The sun’s always up.” He shoves the sunglasses back on my face. 

“I’m not wearing them,” I repeat. 

He glares at me. “You want to be apart of the Side Project, you follow my rules.” Side Project is the term we’ve adopted for Jim’s criminal life. It makes it easier to talk about in front of Evelyn, and, quite honestly, it’s nice to think that our household has its own little culture and vernacular. Just like a real family. 

“This isn’t part of the Side Project; we’re just meeting with Pete.” 

“I need you to look intimidating.” 

I scoff. “You’ve never actually met him have you? Because he’s not the sort of bloke you need to intimidate.” 

Jim’s eyes blaze. “ _This_ is why I don’t like having ‘partners’.” His shoulders are tight and his jaw is clenched. 

God, he gets bitchy any time I question or object to anything he does. “Oi, relax,” I snap back, catching him by the wrist as he huffs out of the loo. “What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” he answers primly. He tugs at my grip on him. 

“Jim.” 

“Bash.” 

He’s in a snit. Okay. I know what needs to happen. I cup his face, resting my forehead against his. “Hey, what’s the matter, kitten?” I ask softly. 

His scowl deepens at first, but then the wrinkles on his forehead lessen and his jaw loosens. I feel his shoulders relax. “I need you to be my bodyguard, not my boyfriend.” 

I can’t help but smile. “Just like old times?” 

He nods. “Just do this. Because I’m the boss.” 

“Say please.” 

He glowers at the teasing. “I’d hate to cut your balls off in the same hotel room as our sleeping daughter, but I’m not opposed to it.” He pulls away again and this time I let him go. “Put on the fucking sunglasses.” 

“No.” 

We’re staying at some posh hotel near Disney World which offers hourly child-care at an exorbitant rate. At first I was surprised that Jim would let _anyone_ watch our little lady, but then I discovered the cameras synced to his phone as well as his calculations of how long it would take for me to run from the Myth Bar to our room. (Hint: less than 30 seconds.) 

After the sitter arrives and after Jim’s tested the cameras for the millionth time, we make our way to the bar. I can feel him practically buzzing beside me. There’s a light in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a while, and that coupled with the sun he’s gotten from a day at a mouse’s theme park makes him look almost healthy. 

He refuses to hold my hand, and that’s fine. We take our seats in the corner where the blasphemous priest is already waiting. 

“Mr. Moriarty,” he whispers, in mock awe. “What a pleasure to finally meet you in person!” He rises to shake Jim’s hand. Jim doesn’t accept. 

“Oh of course,” Holy Pete says, “you don’t like to leave fingerprints anywhere, do you? Understandable. We don’t all have access to the Queen’s clean-up crew.” 

“I don’t like to get my hands dirty.” Jim leans back in his seat. “You’ve met my bodyguard.” 

“Oh yes, your, eh, oh what is the kids call it these days, your boytoy.” 

I stiffen up but don’t react. As Jim put it, I’m here to protect, nothing else. Just like old times. I act if and when he tells me. 

Jim doesn’t even smile. “He is rather precious, isn’t he?” He sounds bored, but he reaches to stroke the back of my head. 

Internally, I’m livid. He can be flirty but I can’t? 

“What do you want, Mr. Peter?” 

“What do I want?” he asks as though it’s obvious. “I want to work for you.” 

“The university’s not hiring.” 

“I know you’ve been doing criminal things, Mr. Moriarty. I even know where you disposed of Dr. Munoz.” I start to lunge at him, but Jim waves me off with a small motion. 

Jim is grinning his Consulting Criminal grin, the one that says I’m mildly pleased to be here, but still mostly bored. “Basher, be a dear and fetch me a gin and tonic. Charge it to the room. Would you like anything, Father?” 

_This little bitch is making me play waitstaff._

“Oh no, no, I’ll get my own. I don’t trust him not to poison my drink on the return.” 

_Smart man._ I was considering doing that to Jim’s drink. 

I go to the bar, the priest close behind me. “It’s going well, don’t you think?” 

I look at him over the tops of my sunglasses (because I caved and wore sunglasses), but say nothing. 

Jim tucks his phone back into his suit pocket when we return. He seems calm, so everything must be fine with Evelyn. I set his drink down in front of him and return to the seat beside him. 

“I think I have a lot to offer, Jim. May I call you Jim?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Moriarty then?” 

“Professor will do.” 

I try to conceal my grin. My Professor of the Underground. My Jim. I feel all warm and tingly inside. 

“Professor, then.” Pete downs his first shot of bourbon. “Professor, I have connections that may interest you.” 

“Mycroft Holmes. His sister. Lady Smallwood. Lord Blackwell. . .” he proceeds to list off people who sound important, foreign, or a combination of the two. 

Pete’s eyes widen to the size of his fists. He chuckles. “That’s very impressive.” 

“It is. Your connections, however, are not.” He smiles tightly. 

“Well, see, you forgot one.” 

Jim tilts his head. 

“But I’m not one to just give it all away on a first date. Not for free, at any rate.” 

Jim sighs loudly. His lilt drips with disdain. “You want money.” 

“Five million a year. When the empire is up and running, of course. I’m not unreasonable. I know you can’t afford that on a university salary.” 

Jim sits up and locks his hands together atop the table in a very business-like manner. “Father Henry, I never pay anyone more than what it would cost to have them killed.” He nods his head in my direction. “Right now, I could have you killed for a blow job and a cigarette.” 

_JAMES MORIARTY._ I bite my tongue. 

Pete is starting to sweat. He pours himself another shot. “Rest assured, you want this contact.” He downs it. 

“Who?” 

“She’s dead. Just like you.” 

Jim’s smile fades. He leans in, interested. 

“Prove it.” 

Pete clucks his tongue, shaking his head. “I couldn’t sell out my friend for anything less than 5 million a year.” 

Jim licks his lips. “Prove to me that she’s alive, and I won’t sic my big bad tiger on you. Tonight.” 

“I need more than an assurance on my life.” 

“One million after the first year. Not a penny before.” 

“Oh, come now, Professor. Must you be so cheap?” 

“If you don’t like the terms of employment, take it up with HR.” 

“Three million. That’s the bounty on her head.” 

Jim (literally) rolls this around in his head. “And what exactly do you think she can do to benefit me? Besides giving me the keys to Sherlock Holmes.” 

Holy Pete grins. “Weapons dealers. CIA codes. Everything you used to have and more. No use rebuilding your network from scratch, right?” 

“Who said I was interested in rebuilding?” 

“Your good friend Dr. Roylott.” 

_Who the fuck is that?_

Jim tenses beside me. “Roylott’s a lush.” 

“Yes, well, so am I. We have great conversations when we’re dismantling the donors.” 

_Oh my gosh, has Jim been in touch with organ dealers behind my back?_ My fists clench and the rage starts to bubble in my chest. 

“You should never drink and dispose of evidence.” 

_Like you didn’t when you killed Evelyn’s principal? You hypocritical lying sonuvabitch!_

The priest waves his comment away. “What’s done is done, Professor. We learn from our mistakes. Which, by the way, Gruner confessed to me that you’d also been in touch with him. Very interesting. I told him there was no way for you to get letters to Sherrinford, that it must be all in his head.” 

Jim’s smile tightens. I am ready to kill him. I’m shaking with fury. Nonetheless, I keep quiet. Jim needs this. We can have our little domestic when the meeting is over. _He’s gone ‘round the fuckin’ bend if he thinks I’m still going on Splash Mountain with him tomorrow._

“We all have our ways, don’t we?” he says softly. “Three million. After six months. Give me proof that Rosamund Mary is still alive.” 

“And what assurance do I have that you won’t kill me between now and then?” 

“Like you said, Father, I don’t want to have to rebuild from absolutely nothing. Mind numbingly boring.” 

_OH MY GOD HE HAS BEEN MAKING ALL THESE CONTACTS?!_ I slam my fist on the table, too livid to even look at Jim. _SO MUCH FOR OUR OPENLY HONEST PARTNERSHIP!_

Jim doesn’t even flinch. “He’s fiery,” he explains, sounding bored again. “Rest assured, unless someone finds out you’re working for me, Addison O’Neill, you’ll live for a minimum of another six months. Now. Proof.” 

Holy Pete reaches into his pocket and retrieves a mobile phone, flipping it around so Jim can see it without touching it. 

It’s a snap of a woman I recognize but can’t place. 

Jim shakes his head. “This could be taken from any time. Ginger hair means nothing.” 

“She’s still wearing her wedding ring.” 

Jim shrugs. 

“What other proof would you like, Professor?” 

“Her head.” 

“Well, her head wouldn’t really be proof that she’s still alive, now would it?” 

Jim laughs. “Where is she?” 

“What would your plans for her be?” 

“A ransom. Her life for Holmes’. And my oh-so-handsome bodyguard will be more than happy to provide the killshot.” Out of the priest’s sight, beneath the table, Jim squeezes my upper thigh. 

I shoot him a sideways glare. 

“For more than a blowjob and a cigarette, I would hope.” Pete winks at me. 

_GREAT! I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE ONE OF MORIARTY’S RENTBOYS!_ My eye starts to twitch. 

“Oh no.” Jim’s hand slides closer to my groin. “Daddy’s saving something special for that.” 

_I will break that goddamn hand, you fucking tease._ I grab his wrist, trying to be inconspicuous. 

Jim’s grin broadens. He slips out of my grasp, and, to my surprise, folds his fingers between mine, still out of sight. 

You know what pisses me right the fuck off about that? The fact that it soothes the burn of my anger. I’m still upset that he’s kept me out of his contacts with other criminals, but not ready to murder him like I was two minutes ago. He starts tapping my knuckles. I block out their conversation, trying to make out Morse Code, but it’s just nonsense. Jim’s just tapping as Jim does. 

I come back to the conversation. Pete is writing something on one of the cocktail napkins. He slides it over to Jim when he’s finished, and I instinctively catch it before it reaches Jim. Jim’s made no movement to retrieve it anyway. I briefly glance at it before I fold it in half and tuck it safely away in my blazer. 

Jim releases my hand and checks his phone again. “That’ll be all, wouldn’t you say, tiger?” 

I nod. 

Jim gets to his feet. I follow suit. “We’ll be in touch, Father.” 

As we leave, Pete says, “Oh, Professor, please be aware--should anything happen to me, I’ve told Ms Adler where I am.” 

Jim spins on his heel. “Aw,” he cooes, “I’m flattered that you’re so frightened.” 

Pete smiles back. “I don’t step into anyone’s employment lightly.” 

I stay behind him until we’re in the elevator, maintaining the illusion that I’m guarding him and nothing else. Once we’re in the elevator, though, he rolls his eyes to focus on me, smiling mischievously. “Somebody’s angry,” he sings. “What is it, pretty kitty?” 

He’s practically glowing right now, his entire being relaxed and radiating _Moriarty_. I can feel myself scowling at him, trying my hardest not to contract his mirth. He’s cute when he’s criminal. Ugh. 

“You’ve been working on Side Projects without me.” 

He creases his eyebrow. “No I haven’t.” 

“Making contacts in the organ market? Getting messages to someone named Gruber?” 

“Oh that. I told you about that.” 

“No you bloody well didn’t.” 

“Yes I did! I said, I’ve got to talk to a doctor.” 

“When?!” 

“In June!” 

“I thought you were calling about Evelyn’s allergies.” 

He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “Why would I need to talk to a doctor about her allergies, Basher? We’ve already got the prescription, and she’s hardly been affected this year.” 

“Okay, what about Gruber?” 

“It’s Gruner, and he’s a Baron, all right. And I didn’t tell you about him because frankly I forgot.” 

“How do you just forget that?!” 

He raises an eyebrow at my outburst. “It wasn’t important. Just asking him about interests.” 

“So you’re off flirting with a Baron and a doctor while I’m selling overpriced vyvanse to college students?” 

He throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “You said you wanted to be apart of it!” 

“Yeah, your life and your side project! But you’ve got a million other things happening that I have no clue about.” 

He gapes, flustered. “Well, yes. That’s just how my mind works.” 

I sigh, leaning back against the elevator wall. The door opens and we exit, Jim staring at the floor, deep in thought. We don’t speak until after Jim’s paid the sitter. 

“I just thought we were doing well, you know?” 

“We are!” he says in a loud whisper, careful not to wake our daughter. 

“No, we’re not. _You’re_ doing well because you’ve got other things happening. You’re doing well because you’ve got a whole criminal life in the works.” 

Jim looks legitimately confused. “Why does that upset you?” 

“I guess I thought you were doing well because we were working together. And you’re not.” Ugh, that sounds so stupid and saccharine. “I guess it just stings my pride.” I slip my tie off and toss my blazer in the closet, then flop back on the bed. 

The bed dips under Jim’s weight. He’s perfectly still beside, reasoning through what’s been said, what he should say, what he actually means, and the like. Finally, he offers, “It’s just always been me.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s not. . . purposeful.” 

I nod my head and sigh again. “I know, kitten. Just. . . keep me up to date? Because it’s not just you anymore.” I reach up to pet his dyed temples. _Vain little shit._

“I’ll . . . try.” 

“For the record, I expect a helluva lot more than a blowjob and a cigarette when this takes off.” 

His jubilance reemerges. “Oh, Tiger, Daddy’ll buy you whatever you want.” 

Anisa’s voice plays in my head. _Are you one of his rentboys?_

_No, just kept, apparently._

“And I’m not precious,” I tell him. 

He gives me a patronizing pout. “No, you’re a big tough manly man, aren’t you?” He snuggles down to my side. “Killing people and being fierce.” 

“Damn right.” 

He giggles beside me. 

“You’re feeling pretty good aren’t you?” 

He nods. “Best I’ve felt since I saw Sherlock’s obituary headlining the Daily Mail.” 

~

_April 2016_

Father Henry Peter is serving as an interim priest in Paulista, Brazil, which, unfortunately, means we’re moving to Brazil after Jim’s fellowship ends. Which also means that I’ll be attending mass led by an alcoholic murderer and while both those descriptors can be applied to myself, the whole things makes me uneasy. 

I start doing little jobs for Jim here and there. Moving organs from one facility to the other, getting identity documents from one gang to another, very pedestrian stuff. Soon, though, order finds it way through the criminal world of Brazil and Australia, and before you know it, I’m back on the docks every few weeks, ensuring our products don’t get mixed in with the legitimate products. 

Sometimes, maybe once every two months, I go work for Irene. Mostly to keep up appearances with the British Government and to keep her updated on her Pete’s doings. In return, she gives me information on various criminal happenings in New South Wales. 

I never stay for long though. I really do hate to be away from my Jim and my Evelyn for too long. It's funny how the two of them destroyed the life I worked so hard to build for myself, and yet, somehow, I'm back where I started. I'm doing exactly what I was doing five years ago, working for Moriarty, but everything's completely changed. I'm a business partner. I'm a father. And, as luck would have it, I'm a lover. 

Jim is reading beside me in our bed. I’m dozing, knowing that I should get Evey’s jersey out of the wash before the red runs onto her socks, but being entirely too lazy to give a damn. (I’m a wonderful father.) 

His phone buzzes. 

“Who is it?” I mumble. It’s habit now. Like I’ve said, you don’t get a lot of questions with Jim, but as long as I keep my questions to one, I can ask often. It’s balancing act, talking to Jim, but I think he’s working on it. Maybe. Maybe I’m just getting better at working with him. Anyway, asking one question often has helped me stay abreast of his activities. 

“Someone I need you to kill.” 

“Mkay.” I roll over. “I’ll do it in the morning.” 

“No rush.” 

He taps out a response on the mobile, then slams his book shut. 

Jim is so goddamn dramatic at all hours of the day. It’s bloody exhausting. I ignore him. He wants me to ask, but I’m tired, and I don’t want to, and if he wants to have a discussion he can bloody well approach it like an adult. 

I feel his eyes burning into my shoulder. It’s getting harder to ignore him. 

“How was work?” he asks in his flirtatious sing-songy way. 

I groan. “Uneventful.” 

“Was our dear priest there?” 

“Kitten, if you’re gonna be awake, go get Evey’s football things out of the wash and hang them out to dry.” 

I hear him huff. “What the hell are we, barbarians? We have a dryer! And electricity!” 

“She’s growing, and it’ll shrink in the dryer.” 

“That’s fuckin’ absurd,” he snaps back. “It’s 2016.” 

“Fine, go put it in the dryer,” I concede. “You’ll be the one dealing with her when she’s throwing a tantrum at practice.” 

He curls against me, spooning me, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Hey Tiger?” 

“Jim, I swear to God . . .” 

He nibbles at my shoulder. “Tiiiiiger,” he whines. 

I flop over onto my back. “Whaaaat?” I mock him. 

He snuggles against my chest. “I need you to kill somebody.” 

“I told you I’ll do it in the morning.” 

“If I finish up the laundry, will you do it?” 

I rub my eyes. The light doze is long gone. “What? Who? Why is it so important _right now_?” 

He starts tapping against my chest. I take his hand, and I realize how smooth his skin is now. Plump and resilient and no longer scaly. It has been a while since he’s scrubbed his hands to the point of bleeding. Is it the expensive soaps and lotions I’ve been buying him or has the self-soothing handwashing behavior reduced? I kiss his palm. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m glad he’s doing better? Maybe it’s just nice to feel smooth skin? Maybe I’m rewarding the positive turn in how he copes? “He’s not in Brazil, is he?” I ask, referring to, of course, Sherlock Holmes. 

Jim shakes his head. He leans down to kiss my forehead. “I need you to kill Father Henry Peter.” 

“Right now?” 

“Mhm.” 

“No, Jim, it can wait.” 

“What?! Who are you?! You hate him!” 

“Jim, there’s a lot that goes into it. You know that. I gotta get his schedule down, gotta do some staking out, figure out the weather.” I motion to the window, the curtains closed. “See, I don’t even know what it’s doing outside. No, no, I can’t do it tonight.” 

Jim slaps my chest. “Just fucking kill him! You don’t have to shoot him. You can just go in and stab him!” 

“Uh-huh, nope. Not tonight. We’re out of bleach anyway.” 

“You’re an assassin,” he groans. “Why are you out of bleach?” 

“ _We’re_ out of bleach, first of all, because second, you _encouraged_ your daughter to start a foodfight at lunch today. That’s why we’re out of bleach.” 

Jim’s frown deepens. “OH MY GOD IS IT COLORSAFE?” 

I bait him. “Is it what?” 

“Did you use colorsafe bleach?!” 

I laugh. “Kitten, I’ve been doing your laundry for three years, I know what color safe bleach is.” The panic leaves his face. “But I’ve never used it at a murder.” 

“I’m sure it works just as well.” 

“I. Am. Not. Killing. _ANYONE_. Tonight. Understand?” 

He kicks me under the sheets. “You great lazy shit. I ask you to do one thing. . .” 

“What did he even do?” 

“He defied one of my orders.” His eyes darken, zeroing in on mine. “Just like you’re doing right now.” 

I pat his cheek. “Fine, you get an assassin at this hour, babe, to come and kill me. I need the rest anyway.” I roll over onto my side. 

“Baaaaasherrrrrr!” 

I throw the covers off me in aggravation. “Ok, fine! Jesus Christ, you annoying little twit! You’re taking Evelyn to her counseling appointment. I’m not kidding!” I storm over to the closet to retrieve some supplies, purposely slamming the door and knocking around everything I can. 

“Are you just gonna go out in your pants?” 

I glare at him. “Yes. As a matter of fact. I wasn’t, but then you asked that and yes, I’m going to. And you know what else? I’m going to stop by that 24 hour shop and buy some cigarettes, and when I get back, you better suck me off, because I’m told fags and oral sex are the market rate for priestly murders these days.” 

~

Four hours later, I’m sliding beneath the covers of the bed I share with Jim. I’ve cleaned up the scene and had my fill of nicotine and cachaça. At some point in my absence, Evelyn has gotten into bed with her Daddy. 

Oh my precious little makeshift family. It really is so comforting to come home to loved ones after a night of murder and substance abuse. 

I close my eyes, pulling my daughter against my chest and searching for Jim’s hips to pull him into the pile. 

“Mm, tiger,” he moans in his sleepy state. 

“All done, kitten. Sweet dreams.” 

“You smell like nicotine.” 

“Shut up.” 

A long interlude of sleepy silence. 

“Hey Tiger?” 

“Hm?” 

“You wanna know what he diiiid?” 

Might as well humor the little drama queen, am I right? “Sure.” 

“I asked him if he would marry us.” 

My eyes pop open. It feels like the nicotine and alcohol just evaporate from my body. 

“He said he wouldn’t.” 

Well, obviously. Does Jim know anything about the Catholic church? Oh my God. I can’t breathe. 

_OH MY GOD._

As a boy, I imagined my wife as a tall, dark, plump thing, always dressed like Maid Marion from the Disney version of Robin Hood. Long black hair with dark eyes and a genius in the kitchen. Perhaps a little too passionate to be considered “sane” and amazingly vocal in bed. 

And yet . . . 

And yet, I would gladly lay down my life for my genius, ridiculous, vulnerable, powerful employer-slash-boyfriend. When I think of my future now, I think of camping with Evey and Jim, of Christmas in Ireland, of the New Year in India, of Evey’s next soccer game, all scheduled around shipments and deliveries and assassinations. 

This was Jim’s idea. 

Does Jim love me? 

Is he capable of love? 

Does that matter? 

“You could’ve just asked me first.” 

“Nah. I did actually need him to be, you know, dead.” 

I feel strangely warm and flustered and tense. Like a prepubescent girl. I try to shake it off. 

But it’s such a pleasant feeling, being wanted, being loved (maybe?), not knowing what to do with the energy that comes with declarations of love, I let it lull me to sleep in the silence of my bedroom. The bedroom I share with Jim. It’s okay that Evelyn’s foot is pressing into my kidneys. It’s okay that Jim steals all the covers. 

My name is Sebastian Moran. I hunt. I fuck. I kill. Everything's exactly how it was five years ago. Except now I do the washing and cooking for the makeshift family I never imagined I would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna start another "section" of this story in another fic. It'll be all the porn-y bits. Because Seb totally pampers Jim before this chapter but it didn't fit the intent of the original summary. It wasn't a "snapshot" so to speak, just Basher trying to get in Jim's pants that didn't move the plot a long.
> 
> I love you guys. We're almost to the end. And then there's gonna be a bonus honeymoon chapter. Yay! 
> 
> My dog laid down on my lap while I was wrapping this chapter. So I had to stop. I was gonna write more, but once a doggy lays on your lap, you have to stop writing. I don't make the rules, I just abide by them. Usually. Like, I abide by the speeed limit signs. Mostly.


	20. The End.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beginning of a New Empire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had a really hard time ending this. It just doesn't feel up to par and maybe a bit rushed. Warnings for some mentioned gore and Eurus hate.
> 
> But this is how the two begin their married life--storming Sherrinford, murdering a Holmes, and blaming two other people for their new criminal web.

_May 2017_

“. . . and remember that if Carrie or Joe or their little bastards say anything--”

“Those little bastards are my nieces and nephews, Jim.” 

“--about having two dad, it’s okay to ignore them and get violent.” 

“Jim!” 

“And you have my number, right? And Ms. Adler’s? And the embassy’s? And you know you can call at any time, right? And you know that I love you very, very much?” 

I try to jerk the satellite phone from Jim’s hand, but Jim comes with it. I have to pry him off. “Listen, Evey, baby, we’ll call you when we get to the hotel, yeah?” 

“Yesss,” she hisses. I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. 

“I love you. And Daddy loves you.” I press my foot to Jim’s chest to keep him away from me. He tries to lunge over my leg, but the raft is too unstable. 

“I love you both, too.” 

_Call ended._

Jim immediately sinks back in the raft, crossing his arms and pouting. 

I don’t want to ask. I shouldn’t ask. But I do. “What?” 

“I hate you.” 

“Jim, you were on with her for a half hour. That’s plenty of time for someone to notice and trace the signal.” 

He purses his lips. Both of us are made up to look like we’ve been out to sea for a week. It’s a rather convoluted plan, one that’s very Jim, and it kicked off last week when we blew up a cruise liner. His lips are white and appear to be peeling. His face looks sunburnt and blistered, as I’m sure mine does too. Jim’s a fantastic makeup artist, I’m learning. Our clothes are ripped and singed and our hair is greasy and salty from the sea. 

“Your idiot sister is going to brainwash her.” 

I sigh. _Jesus, not this again._ “Evey’s a smart girl. She knows how to process what’s right and what’s not.” 

He raises an eyebrow, challenging me. “And tell me, my conservative Catholic _husband_ , is it okay that we got married?” 

“Jim, for God’s sake, are you gonna be this argumentative the entire honeymoon?” 

“Is our marriage a sinnnnnnn?” he asks, a wild grin on his face. 

“Yes, but so is killing people, and drinking in excess, and fucking whores, and busting kneecaps, and selling cocaine to volunteers at Evelyn’s school, but here we are.” 

Jim’s face goes blank. “We need to get this annulled, NOW.” 

“Shush, you’re just grumpy. Come here.” 

“No. Too hot.” Nonetheless, he crawls over to me, nuzzling his cheek against my shoulder. I take his hand in mine, tapping the tip of each finger. 

We’re floating in a raft somewhere between Barbados and Cape Verde. About an hour or so ago, we hijacked a charter boat, drowned everyone on board, and when we were close enough to Sherrinford to float aimlessly for a while, we jumped on the raft. No idea where the fuck the boat went, but it went. 

I expect sooner rather than later we’ll run into the Royal Army. A place like Sherriford’s gotta be drenched in security and secrecy. Oh well, what’s a honeymoon without gunplay, I suppose. 

“I have a killer soundtrack picked out for our takeover,” he says absently. He pulls his mp3 player from his pocket and twirls it absently. 

“Drama queen.” 

“It’s going to be awesome.” 

“Even awesomer than you coming down the aisle to Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Gotta Crush on You”?” 

“Your sister wasn’t impressed.” 

“No, she wouldn’t be. Neither was I, frankly.” 

“Don’t be so boring, Bash.” 

“All I wanted was a normal, quiet wedding.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t let me wear the dress. . .” 

“You wouldn’t _fit_ into my mum’s wedding dress.” 

“Are you saying I’m fat?” 

“Jim, I’m going to shove you off the raft.” 

“Why? Are you sad your blushing bride’s not a _virgin_?” 

“More that my blushing bride’s a groom.” I grin down at him. 

“Arse.” He bites my shoulder. 

“Save it for after work, kitten.” 

He looks up at me with that impish glint in his eye, teeth still embedded in my shoulder. 

I think we both hear the tiny projectile whizzing through the air and just barely have time to react. I barely register that we’re both in the water and that the raft has a giant, hissy hole in the center before I’m aiming my Jericho 941 at the direction the shot emanated from. 

“Basher!” Jim whispers, barely audible over the waves and the air escaping the raft. “We’re supposed to be shipwrecked!” 

Another shot whizzes past us. I think I can make out a patrol boat on the horizon. “They don’t care, Jim. Take this.” I hand him the Jericho. “Try to keep it out of the water.” 

He starts to argue but I take a deep breath and dive as deep as the pressure in my ears will allow me. Already I can feel my lungs burning. Ugh, has house life made me _this_ weak? I swim westward, letting the salt sting my eyes until they’re numb. 

To my surprise (and momentary terror), something snags my arm. I turn around to find my husband ( _holy fuck, I’m straight, how has this happened, I’m so happy_ ) waving the pistol the way a mother would wave her finger at a naughty child. We both pop up for breath. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m a much faster swimmer, Bash.” 

“No you’re not.” 

“Yes. I am. So _you_ , Tiger, stay here and let Daddy handle this.” 

I’m more than a little ticked that Jim dives beneath the surface and moves below the waves like a goddamn fish. He might actually be faster than me. I’m afraid to find out. I’m supposed to be the brawn. How emasculating would that be if the man I’m supposed to protect was a better swimmer than me? 

Also, that Jericho is fucked. Poor kid will probably never fire again. 

I follow after him, trying my damnedest to keep up, to no avail. Apparently I married a mermaid. I hear shots being fired into the water, and I can barely make out the water lines of bullets shooting through the ocean. 

My heart pounds harder when I realize that Jim has reached whatever patrol boat has been speeding towards us. I don’t notice any red, but I’m only barely able to make out basic shapes underwater. I resurface to breathe and decide it’s now or never. 

I pull the Glock from the holster hidden beneath my cargo shorts and aim for the pin of a head that I can make out. I see the telltale whip of red above the head and then all shots are on me. 

Dive. 

_Dive._

The insides of my ears start to feel like someone’s shoving screwdrivers in them. A bullet knicks the side of my face. Salt water infiltrates the wound, and it takes a lot of control not to stop my descent and grab my cheek. 

The rain of bullets cease. The sound of blades slicing through water is all I can hear. 

I try to hold out, stay hidden in the water but carbon dioxide is flooding my system. 

I surface, ready to fire at the boat in front of me. A bulk splashes beside me, then surfaces. Above me, Jim is leaning on the guardrails of the boat, holding a carbine. Blood stains his white sun shirt and swim trunks. I spit salt water at him. 

“Did you just throw a dead man at me?” 

“He’s not dead _yet_. But he’s not conscious either.” I realize that the water I’m treading is pink with blood. 

“Dick.” I swim around to the other side and pull myself onto the boat. “How can you swim so fast?” 

“I swam. I swim.” He shrugs. “Impressed?” 

“Emasculated is more like it.” 

“God, just when I think I can handle your hetero-ness, you pull this shit.” He tosses the Jericho at me. “It broke.” 

“Yeah, they don’t handle water well.” I get to my feet. The height the boat affords me allows me to see a building floating on the water. “Is that it?” 

“Yes.” He kicks another body off the boat. “I can’t believe they shot at us. They didn’t even ask.” 

“You seem to have some misconceptions about the Royal Army.” 

“Oh, Tiger, your face.” I’m taken aback by the tenderness with which he cups my cheek. 

“It’s all right. I’m in denial about it,” I lie. 

A maniacal grin splits slowly across his face. “Bash.” 

“What?” 

“We’re about to storm Sherrinford for our honeymoon!” His voice is high and excited, like a kid at Christmas. His arms wrap around me and squeeze. “Just like old times.” 

It’s so nice to see Jim being Moriarty. Enjoying being Moriarty. In some ways, I never got to enjoy Moriarty on an intimate level. Now, I get all the Jims. The Dad Jim, the Moriarty Jim, the Maniac-Depressive Jim, the Obsessive Jim, et cetera. I kiss the top of his head. “Is my pretty kitten pleased?” 

He gives me a half-hearted glare which melts into a smile. “I’m the boss.” 

“Is my pretty boss pleased?” 

He bats his eyes like a cartoon from the 1950s. “Oh, yes.” 

~~

“Basher, we have to go back to the raft.” 

“The raft is dead, Jim.” 

“No, Sebastian, you don’t understand. We _have_ to go back.” 

“Why?” 

“I can’t wear this to storm Sherrinford! I look like a tourist!” 

“What, you packed a suit on the raft? Knowing we were going to be out in the middle of the bloody ocean?” 

“I didn’t expect soldiers to shoot at shipwrecked civilians!” 

“So you’re going to fetch and wear a wet suit?” 

“I need to look like myself!” 

“Gruner is the fall guy. Stay outta sight, no one will see you, and everything will be fine.” 

“If anyone sees me, you have to kill them. I didn’t care before because they’re all insane, but now they absolutely must die if they see me in calf pants.” 

~~

“No.” 

“Yesssss.” 

“Jim, I’m not docking until you put clothes on.” 

“I can’t be seen in that shirt.” 

“I’m not letting waltz into an insane asylum naked.” 

~~

When there’s forty-five of UK’s finest guarding the criminally insane, plus another eight patrolling the vicinity, it’s not wise to just charge in, guns blazing. Before docking, I radio in as Private Cogsdale explaining that I’ve found a survivor from last week’s shipwreck and I’m bringing him to the facility for medical treatment. 

The soldier on the other end of the radio initially pushes back but relents quickly. 

Jim has found a spare uniform in one of the storage closets of the patrol boat and is wearing it so he can escort me into this Victorian-era military base. It smells surprisingly sterile, not at all musty or stale. Cameras are everywhere, I’m sure of it, but they seem misplaced among the ancient brick and worn stone. My adrenaline level is sky-high, and my hand itches to pull out the knife from my pocket and just go for it. We pass a few soldiers, but none of them stop or pay attention. 

I love this line of work. 

Jim stays close behind me, doing his best to keep his face hidden without looking suspicious. We check in with a man whose emblem indicates he’s a lieutenant-colonel. That must suck, working your way through the ranks only to be stuck in the middle of the ocean as a glorified receptionist. A cadet then leads us through various hallways, and I pretend to falter a few times to enhance our cover story that I'm a shipwrecked tourist-turned-victim. 

I get seated on a stainless steel gurny, cold and hard, and an equally unfeeling medic dismisses the cadet and Jim, which veers us away from the ideal plan, but it’s not as if this was a scenario we didn’t cover. 

The medic checks my eyes, my throat, my ears. He pinches the skin of my hand, then gives me a suspicious look when it quickly slides back into its rightful place, a sign that I am in fact well-hydrated. “And exactly how long have you been out at sea?” 

Well, I hope Jim’s found the Doctor and the Baron, because I’m gonna have to take out this medic. 

As I’m shoving the lifeless body of the exsanguinated doc into a coat closet, alarms screech and suddenly, there’s only darkness. Either Jim’s been caught or the Baron’s broken free with Jim’s help and now the facility is on lockdown. Unfortunately, I’d had to check my pocket knife with a mini-LED light with the glorified receptionist, so I have no lightsource. 

Outside the bay, I can hear rapid footfalls. Other rooms around me are being evacuated. I suppose this happens often, because no one seems particularly panicked from what I can tell. There’s no chaotic shouting or running, and everyone seems perfectly versed in where they need to be. 

I feel my way through the darkness until I reach the hallway, where there’s just enough light from the sparsely spaced windows to make out what’s happening. Guards, medics, techs, etc, are filtering in from various hallways, filing seamlessly down one giant corridor. 

Then something bizarre happens that throws the routine into absolute chaos. A horde of medical-gown white sweeps upon the hallway like that wave of blood in the movie _The Shining_. The sounds of yells and screams and gunshots drown out the alarms. 

Some lunatic charges me, teeth filed to points and bared. 

_Oh my sweet summer child . . ._

She’s on the floor, a pool of blood circling her head like an ever-expanding halo. These concrete floors are murder on skulls. It feels so good to be this man again. Jim’s nuts if he thinks I’m not invoicing him for that kill. 

Amidst the chaos, I retrace my steps back to the check-in desk, picking weapons off the deceased or unconscious. This is turning into a right bloodbath and a very nice honeymoon. 

I retrieve my knife and the location of one Eurus Holmes. 

~~

Jim’s feet are propped up on the desk when I enter the office labelled “Authorized Personnel Only.” He’s frowning at me. Some stranger I’ve never seen before sits across the desk from him, still dressed in the white medical gown, his hair chaotic and wild. 

I grin back. I know he knows and he knows that I know that he knows. “What?” 

“You know what.” He motions to the many, many screens behind him, full of images of the riot happening below. He’s seen me decapitate Eurus. 

I cover my mouth to mute my laughter. “Not a clue, kitten.” 

“I’m not _paying_ you for murdering the smartest Holmes. If you invoice me for it, I’ll divorce you.” 

“Consider it a wedding present.” 

His scowl deepens. “I liked her. She was fun.” 

“She kidnapped and traumatized our child.” Jim makes a face, conceding my point. I nod at the man in the chair. “This is Gruner?” 

“Where are my manners? Baron, this is my charity case, Colonel Sebastian Moran. Colonel, this is a lunatic, Baron Adelbert Gruner. Baron, thank you for being apart of our honeymoon.” 

He turns around, revealing a face marred with burns and scars and what appears to be melted flesh. 

“My ex threw acid in my face,” he explains in a thick Austrian accent. “I expect we should leave soon, Mr. Moriarty.” 

I clear my throat. “That’s Mr. Moran, actually.” 

Jim hurls a stapler at me. “No it isn’t.” 

“Yes it fucking is.” 

Jim pays me no mind. “Please, call me Professor.” 

“Yes, well, MI-6 is never far away, Professor.” He gets to his feet. "We should be on our way." 

I put my hand on Gruner’s shoulder, keeping him in his seat. “I thought we were waiting for Roylott?” 

Jim holds up a bloodied arm that certainly doesn’t belong to him. “Roylott’s no longer with us. Just the chip.” He beams. 

“Did you dispose of the body? But it won’t make a good cover for us if they find Roylott’s body.” The plan, as Roylott and Gruner knew it, was that we would spring them, they would be the face of the organization and get in on the new empire that Jim was building. The microchips that traced their movements would be disposed of once we escaped the facility, just so it was obvious to everyone that Roylott and Gruner had escaped during a riot. 

The actual plan was that once we sprung Roylott and Gruner, we’d dispose of them and remove the chips from their arms and ship them all over the world so that the CIA, MI-6 and Interpol would blame them for our business activities. 

Gruner waves, a guilty smile on his face. “Roylott is no concern.” 

Jim shrugs. “Not a lot has gone right today, but we adapt. What have you done with the Girl One’s head?” 

“It’s on a pike in the tower.” 

Jim flashes this grin that I’m coming to realize is just for me. “Feeling a bit sensational, I take it? So dramatic for an Englishman.” 

I smile back. “Don’t fuck with my family.” 

“That was _years_ ago.” 

“A tiger never forgets.” 

Gruner furrows his brows. “That is not the phrasing?” 

~~

“Good afternoon those of you who still live,” Gruner reads Jim’s words over the intercom. “Dr. Roylott and myself would like to extend an offer to you. As many of you know, Dr. Roylott has a property in Qatar and a lucrative business buying and selling organs and various body parts. You can take part in this venture--except for Catherine and Ryder! We can’t have the two of you eating the merchandise.” He smiles knowingly at Jim, who motions for him to continue. “You can take part in this venture by presenting the _LIVE_ Mary Rosamund, also known as Mary Morstan, also known as Mary Watson, also known as “R” in AGRA, also known as the bitch who shot Sherlock Holmes to us in person at a location to be determined.” 

I turn to glare at Jim. He kisses the air between us. I shove his face away, and he laughs. 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to reach us. Keep in touch! This is Baron Adelbert Gruner, wishing you all the best of luck and a very happy Hunger Games!” He turns off the intercom and looks at Jim, baffled. “Hunger Games?” 

“It’s a children’s book.” Jim retrieves an MP3 player from his pocket with a gloved hand, hooking into the sound system so that David Bowie’s _Heroes_ is blasting over the intercom. “Shall we, boys?” He brings his hands together with a loud clap, positively giddy. He offers his hand to me, singing with Bowie. “I . . . I will be King. And you . . . you will be Queen.” 

I roll my eyes and hold his hand. “Lead the way, Gruner.” 

~~

When the ablaze Sherrinford is no longer visible on the horizon, and when Gruner’s armless body is floating to the bottom of the ocean, I reduce the speed of the stolen motorboat to something a little more leisurely. Jim’s supposed to be finding a first aid kit, but considering the boat is only so big and he’s been missing for a while, I call to him to ask him what the fuck he’s doing. 

“Trying to make them hold hands!” he answers from the aft. I turn around to see him elbows deep in the cooler. 

“Who?!” 

“Our surrogates!” 

“Jim, it’s two left hands.” 

“That’s why this is difficult,” he says, tone indicating that I’m an idiot. 

Moments later, he tries to press a cleaning cloth to the cuts and scrapes on my arms. I jerk away. “Go wash your hands first! Touching me after you’ve touched two bloody arms--what is wrong with you?” 

“They’re us, Basher!” he says gleefully, ignoring my question. “Every misdeed we do from here on out--everyone will think its them! But it’s really us! So it's very important that they're also in love. And holding hands.” 

“I don’t care. I don’t want Roylott’s blood in any of my open wounds. God only knows what a cannibal like him’s contracted.” 

Jim concedes, but presses a kiss to a nasty wound on my shoulder. “My big brave protector, rescuing his bride from a tower of lunatics.” He throws a towel over my shoulder, then rests his head on it. “I love watching you kill people.” 

I throw an arm around him to squeeze him close and kiss his forehead. “You’re going to hate my invoice.” 

He doesn’t respond. I drive the boat in silence while Jim taps the fingers on my left hand. Finally, he asks, “This is good, right?” 

“What?” 

“This is everything you’ve wanted, right?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’ve got your family, and you’ve got your career. It’s--it’s enough to make you stay even after we’ve killed Sherlock, right?” 

I look down at him, but he doesn’t look up. He continues tapping. The vulnerability in his words doesn’t match the callousness in his tone. 

I’m touched. “I’m Catholic, kitten. We mate for life.” 

He chuckles softly. He stops tapping and starts tracing the newly-placed wedding band on my finger. “And when Evey’s all grown?” 

“I’ll be here. Hey, look at me.” He does and I kiss him. 

He blushes. “You can’t leave. Ever. I’ll kill you if you do.” We go through this sometimes, when Jim is feeling insecure. It’s a soothing mantra for both of us. A reminder that we need each other now. That we’re incompatible and codependent. That he’s not weak for needing me, for feeling lonely, and that I’m not immune to his wrath. 

“No doubt in my mind.” 

“I’m the boss.” 

“Always, kitten.” 

He very quietly adds, “I love you, Tiger.” 

“I love you, too, Jim.” 

He stands up straight. “But that love is dependent on you murdering Sherlock Holmes.” God forbid he get too sentimental. I grin. 

“Consider it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been real. 
> 
> I'm going to write little vignettes about the little family. Some fluffy, some smutty. Please read?


End file.
